I born and grow in a house where once a year, black currants, prunes, raisins, dates and Red Label wine meet in an already wine-stained basin to begin a year-long dance after that — soaking — each blessing all the others with its essence. In transference, but also in stillness. Atop the fridge, effectively forgotten, for a year. A year spent melding into the sludge backbone of too many Fruit cakes for one household oven. Wine and fruits, made one, made better — black as midnight. 

In silent preparation for 12 months to be transformed, then savored. The soak is inanimate, but full of soul in that it is so much more than its physical state. 

It is the intention of my mother to see next Christmas. To provide for her family next Christmas; provide enjoyment, fellowship. To create, next Christmas. It is a deliberate act done each Christmas to better the next. One could argue that this is just the assumption of another Christmas to come, but it is, at least to me, an affirmation of one. 

The soak is unseen for its time of preparation. It goes without notice or praise, but it is still. It is still. It does all it was intended to do. It is inanimate but full of soul in that it represents so much more than its physical state. 

Around the holidays, I always find myself pondering a lot more than usual on my place in the world. The insurgence of all family from all ’bout makes me envision the one I’d like to have for myself one day; the commercialism of the season reminds me of my earthly, materialistic desires, which are tethered to my soul’s desire to be successful in life and my mind’s blankness on how exactly to do that. So somehow, recent thoughts of flying home to fruit cake led me to the realization that I have less discipline… than fruit cake.

I understand that I am personifying the fruit cake, but that is the point. I am an adult human, in magnificent control of all I do and say. I can choose to have the stillness of the black currants, the dates, prunes and raisins, soaking in their bath of Red Label. I can personify them, and realize that for my mother’s famous Christmas fruit cake to exist, there had to be a silent sludge, sitting for a year. doing its job. diligently. each fruit giving its essence. its life? lol. for the betterment of the whole. before the rant and rave, success, on Christmas morning was an extended period of deliberate preparation.

If I could just be a raisin for a moment here and realize that any hard work that, to me, feels thankless or unseen is just the soak. the part where I am on top of the fridge. the part that is responsible for brewing up “success.” and my mother’s Christmas cake.

I would be wise to adopt some of the ways of the wine and the fruits. I’m still struggling with this lesson in real life, but for now, I have a great metaphor and this, my first blog post in nearly three years.