Twisted Fairytales

Covid, inflation, gasoline more expensive than champagne? Wouldn’t it be nice if life was like a fairytale? The heck it would, not if you know the real stories.

Cinderella

Cinderella’s tale has been around for over 2000 years. There are hundreds of versions dating back to ancient Greece and China. The Disney cartoon is the fluffiest of all with Cinderella barely able do anything except smile idiotically no matter how badly she’s treated. In the Grimm version, her name is Aschenputtel and her slippers are made of gold, not glass. In the original French, Cinderella’s slippers were fur which may not be fashionable, but a heck of a lot more comfortable. In both versions, she’s not helpless and weepy like the cartoon, but rather a self-sufficient girl with witch-like powers. She creates a magic tree and has the ability to turn invisible and control birds. The wicked stepsisters allow toe and heel to be cut off to force their feet into the glass slipper. The self-mutilation doesn’t work, and Cinderella marries the prince. During the wedding ceremony, Cinderella commands doves to peck out her stepsisters’ eyes. Talk about Bridezilla.

Pinocchio

Oh, that silly puppet. Good thing he has the blue fairy to pull his fat from the fire. Hah. Not hardly. At the end of the original story, Pinocchio is being chased by assassins. He runs to a house, screaming for help. In an open window is a little girl with blue hair, instead of a fairy. Her eyes are closed and her arms crossed over her chest. A ghostly voice says everyone is dead in the house. Pinocchio begs her to open up anyway, but the little girl says. “I’m dead, too, and waiting for the coffin to take me away.” Pinocchio starts crying, begging the girl for help, but the window closes. The assassins grab him and hang him from an oak tree. The end. Ha-ha. What a delightful tale. It should be easy to get the little ones to sleep after that.

Wizard of Oz: The Tin Woodsman

The Tin Woodsman started out as a normal guy named Nick Chopper who made a nice living chopping down trees in the forests of Oz. After his parents die, he’s lonely and falls in love with a Munchkin girl named Nimmie Amee, but she won’t marry him until he builds her a better house. In the original story, his sweetheart worked for a lazy old woman who wasn’t happy about losing a servant. In later editions, the lazy old woman is a witch, who’s still not happy, so she enchants his axe. When he swings the axe, he chops off his leg, so he goes to a tinsmith to build him a new one. Then he chops off another one. Back to the tinsmith. Then an arm. Then another arm, body part after body part. This guy doesn’t give up and the tinsmith is raking in the dough. Eventually, the axe goes through his heart, and the Tin Woodsman can no longer love and forgets about his sweetheart. What a charming children’s tale.

Bambi

As a child, I loved Bambi, the cartoon. Then I found Bambi, the book, at the local library, and checked it out. Ye gods, that was a mistake. The author, Felix Salten, was an ardent hunter who killed over 200 deer in his lifetime. He cheated on his wife, stole from friends and lost their money. He also believed in appeasing the Nazis and wrote a delightful pornographic book about a child forced into prostitution. What a swell guy. In Disney’s version, nature is idyllic. In Salten’s version a fox tears apart a beloved pheasant, a ferret fatally wounds a squirrel, and a flock of crows attack the young son of Thumper, called in the book Friend Hare. He’s left to die in excruciating pain. Friend Hare’s wife has her leg ripped off and also dies. Bambi nearly batters to death a rival begging for mercy. What does sweet Faline do? She looks on, laughing. Faline has a twin brother, Gobo, who was injured as a fawn and healed by men. He returns to the forest and tells everyone people are swell. Bambi thinks he’s an idiot and mocks him. Turns out he’s right. One day, they spot humans and poor Gobo goes out to say “Hi.” Naturally, he’s shot. The others run away to his wailing death shriek. In the end, Bambi knocks up Faline and then deserts her because stags don’t help with fawns. I wonder why Walt heavily edited the book?

So, the next time the kids ask to be read a fairytale, suggest a violent video game instead. It will leave them with fewer nightmares.

The Rose Stone: A New Release Now on Amazon

 

The Rose Stone

by L. A. Kelley

Jessica Rose Stone has a death sentence, an inoperable brain tumor. As the muscle tremors and pain intensify, an alarming new symptom develops, a rose-colored haze invades her vision. With it, comes the captivating hallucination of a world under a dire threat, protected by a magic crystal called the Rose Stone. Her doctor warned vision changes signaled the beginning of the end, but this Commonwealth of the Rose issues a compelling call. Jess dares to answer and finds a warrior named Griffin engaged in a struggle with an enemy called the darkling, a mysterious being who takes a chilling interest in Jess. With the help of Griffin and his warbird, she evades the darkling’s assassins and discovers her connection to the Commonwealth of the Rose runs deeper than mere illusion.

Tossed back and forth between two worlds, Jess battles the darkling in one reality and a tumor in the other. Her struggle to determine her true place grows as does her attraction to Griffin. Is the call of the Rose Stone a dream, a hallucination, or will it set her heart on the path to something greater?

Excerpt 

The sunlight from the window shifted. Color surrounded me, vibrant pink hues deepening to brilliant crimson, spilling across the painting, brightening the rose. Not so much a haze, but a glowing aura, blocking out everything but the rose, setting the petals ablaze with color.

“Perfect,” I whispered. Drawn by the extraordinary effect, I clasped the palette knife tight to my chest and with my other hand touched the canvas. Spinning, whirling, falling into the depths of the crimson light, I lost feeling in my body but wasn’t afraid. If this was death, it was kinda fun. My eyes closed.

“Oof!”

I hit with a thump, whooshing the air from my lungs, then sucked in a breath and groaned. I was no expert but assumed death didn’t come with a hard landing. I must have passed out and hit the floor and cursed my stupidity. If I were bleeding, I’d have to clean the mess before Melanie arrived or I’d never hear the end of it. I rubbed a hand across the floor, hoping for the touch of concrete and not a pool of something warm and sticky. Instead, my fingers entwined in a soft, springy mass.

“What the…” My floor had no carpet, and this felt like grass. My artistic air freshener had disappeared, too. Lush floral notes replaced the omnipresent smell of paint and turpentine in the loft.

I opened my eyes. My jaw dropped. “Not possible,” I whispered.

The loft had vanished. I lay face up in a glade, surrounded by thick piney woods, one hand clutching the palette knife. Faint pink tinted the foliage, but it vanished as I scrambled to sit. Overhead, a sky with ominous gray clouds was barely visible between the heavy overhanging branches. A stiff breeze, rife with earthy forest scent, batted my cheek. My heart skipped a beat at soft chittering overhead. Leaves rustled as furry creatures scurried across tree limbs as if my sudden appearance startled them.

I staggered to my feet, gulping in a lungful of clean, fresh air, and gawked at the unfamiliar surroundings. This was deep woods and not the local park with manicured walkways. The weather report predicted clear blue skies today, but the gathering clouds overhead hinted at a coming storm. Brush and trees ringed the small clearing. Big trees. Not the local pines, but massive conifers with flat needles that looked as if they had stood for hundreds of years. I’d never seen such trees near my home. I’d never seen such trees ever. Nothing was familiar. I touched a trunk. The dream tree was eerily solid.

My mouth dried. “How can this be real? Where am I?”

Did hallucinations have clear scents and sounds? Shoot, why didn’t I ask Melanie more questions or grill the pharmacist about the side effects from those stupid pills?

Because you were afraid of the answers. How do you feel now about using denial as a treatment for a terminal illness?

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Kinda dumb, actually.”

I took a step and grimaced as a painful muscle spasm shot through my leg. I flexed my fingers and winced. They hurt, too. That much hadn’t changed. I still had the palette knife, so dropped it in the smock’s pocket. Convinced I had completely lost my mind, I placed a finger on my neck and didn’t know whether to be happy or rattled at the steady pulse.

“Okay. I choose to believe I’m alive, but something is very wrong with this scenario. Maybe it’s not a normal hallucination. I-I must have fainted and gotten a hard knock on the head. This might be a coma.” Panic flared inside me. “Calm down. Try to wake up.” I took a deep breath and shouted, “I’m awake now.” The vision of the primeval woods remained stubbornly in place.

A rumbling growl reverberated through the trees, and my heart raced. “All righty. Attracting attention might not be the brightest idea until I figure out what’s going on.”

The little animals overhead chittered again, but this time their conversation had a frenzied aspect. My arrival gave them jitters, but that sound caused wild-eyed terror. Branches shook as they dove for cover, knocking bits of leaves and twigs to the forest floor. In an instant, stillness reigned. Even the stiff breeze had dropped.

Cold sweat trickled down my spine. “Okay, Jess. I really mean it this time. Wake up now.”

Dried vegetation on the forest floor crunched under the weight of a large, heavy something lumbering through the woods. No more than fifty feet away came rustling brush and a low, rumbling snarl. Branches ripped apart as the ominous sound forged a beeline in my direction. Then the noise stopped, but the eerie stillness of the forest offered no comfort. The silence lengthened as if that something was waiting, listening.

Breath caught in my throat.

I took a stumbling step back and froze at the snap of a twig underfoot. “It’s a hallucination,” I whispered. “It can’t hurt me.”

Without warning, the heavy body pounded across the forest floor, rapidly closing the gap between us. Through the brush, I glimpsed a scaly hide. “Screw it. I’m out of here.”

I did an about-face and shambled in the opposite direction, cursing my legs. Why didn’t I remember to bring the cane into the dream world? The lurker in the trees followed, thumping steps drawing closer. I could almost feel hot breath on the back of my neck. Blind panic urged me faster, but I was slowed by a stumbling gait and thick foliage that snatched at my clothing.

Thud!

A heavy body landed right behind me, shaking the ground. Claws clamped my waist, dragging me to a halt and lifting me in the air. The self-defense class Melanie talked me into one summer rushed back. I struck out blindly with my fists and connected with something squishy. I grabbed it and yanked hard. There was a tearing sound and an inhuman bellow. The claws

opened. I tumbled to the ground and got the first good look at my attacker. A scream froze in my throat as I came face to face with a walking horror.

In point of fact, face wasn’t the right word.

 

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Spring starts with the vernal equinox, but what exactly is it? An equinox is when the sun is positioned directly above the Earth’s equator and the hours of daylight and nighttime are very nearly equal. It happens twice a year, spring and autumn. It’s generally accepted the vernal equinox is March 21 when the sun crosses the equator from south to north, but its iffier than you think. Sometimes it hits on the 20^th and, of course, spring only comes to the Northern Hemisphere. The Southern Hemisphere heads toward winter. Earth thinks it’s oh-so-special but every planet in the solar system has an equinox, which occurs when a planet’s orbit and tilt causes hemispheres to receive the same amount of light.

Although the equinox is thought of as a day, it’s actually only a moment when the Sun passes over the equator. For 2022, the Vernal Equinox happened on Thursday, March 20, 2022, at 11:33 a.m., Eastern Standard Time. This is not to say the first day of spring is set in stone. Bands of rogue climatologists roam the streets arguing the point. For them, meteorological seasons are grouped by months and based on weather and temperature shifts. They’ll argue the first day of spring in the Northern Hemisphere should be March 1. Don’t get in their way or they’ll slap you.

Spring is associated with an array of rituals marking the end of winter, often dealing with death and rebirth. The idea of a deity who perishes and is brought back to life is an ancient theme, predating the Bible. Easter, supposedly, derives its name from Eostre, the ancient Teutonic goddess of fertility, bringing light and renewal to the world. Eggs were hidden in her honor as part of fertility rites and, as she was also a moon goddess, her celebrations were held at the full moon closest to the Equinox. Eostre was symbolized by a hare, and by the 17th century in Protestant Europe hares were also symbolic of Easter.

Weird stuff about the vernal equinox

It’s the only day you can stand a raw egg on end.

Presumably, because of the Sun’s position in the sky, the gravitational pull on the Earth means that you can stand an egg up on end during the precise moment of the vernal equinox. Nope. The Earth’s gravity remains unchanged and balancing an egg can be done any day of the year, if you’re really, really, really bored.  

Egad! There’s no shadow at noon.

Only if you happen to be standing exactly on the equator.

Being outside during the vernal equinox can drive you bonkers.

The Sun moving across the equator has no effect on emotions. But Seasonal Affective Disorder plays a part in moods and may have a leftover effect before spring truly kicks in. The warmer days can also bring a touch of spring fever and strengthen the desire to get outdoors. Not to mention being cooped up because of Covid made us all a little nuts.

Take a trip to the gateway to hell.

Several myths have certain days in which a portal to hell can open and the devil can enter the earth. One is Halloween, but the other is the vernal equinox.  A cemetery in the town of Stull, Kansas, apparently has one of them. Since the 1970s, people visiting the cemetery on the vernal equinox report hearing disembodied growling, being grabbed by unseen arms, and experiencing amnesia. No reports on the number of liquor sales on that day is available.

So put that garland of flowers in your hair and dance around the maypole before that blooming botanical mess activates your allergies. Spring has sprung.

 

Shadow of the Eclipse 99 Cent Sale

  

Shadow of the Eclipse

99 Cent Sale March 11-25

Ancient evil prowls the shadow of the eclipse, but the key to saving the present can only be found in the past.

Excitement brews in Crossroads for everyone but lawyer, Callum MacGregor. This year, the town harvest festival coincides with a total eclipse. With a recent breakup, Cal has no desire to attend until a visit from his old law partner, Isaac Bingham, drops a bombshell. Twenty years before Cal’s birth, his grandfather, Phillip Bingham, extracted a promise. Isaac must get Cal to the harvest festival or the world would face unparalleled disaster.

Cal is stunned. How could Phillip know Cal would be born and live in Crossroads? Why this nonsensical warning? The mystery deepens when Isaac tells him he’s not the only one to receive a mysterious summons.

Accountant Meg Adler’s day started badly when her boss fired her for refusing to cook the books, but then a letter arrives from a man named Bingham. It contains a lucrative job offer—details to follow. All she has to do is attend the Crossroads Harvest Festival on opening day and meet his representative to discuss details. Meg is leery, but it’s not the end of the world if this doesn’t pan out. Right?

Ancient evil prowls the shadow of the eclipse, but the key to saving the present can only be found in the past. In a time-traveling adventure, Cal and Meg enter a mystic maze and journey to Babylon, the Dark Ages, and 1906 San Francisco hot on the trail of two magic artifacts lost in the recesses of time. Can they dodge demonic forces, fulfill a dead man’s mission, and discover a new future with each other?

Excerpt

 “So, Cal,” Meg said. “Why meet here? What does this festival have to do with a job?” She flashed a cheeky grin. “I should warn you I don’t work the carny circuit.”

A job? An uneasy sensation settled in his gut. “I’ve no idea. I thought you knew why we were here.”

“Me?” Meg pulled back her hand and color rose to her cheeks. “What is this? Some kind of sick joke? Who does this Phillip Bingham think he is, anyway?”

Cal gaped at her. “Phillip Bingham contacted you? Not Isaac?”

“I got a letter from him with a vague employment offer from the Lux Foundation along with an invitation to attend the Crossroads Harvest Festival.” She wrinkled her brow. “It was a funny kind of letter on really old paper. The room at the inn was paid for by a man named Isaac Bingham, and I needed a job, so I figured what the hell. The instructions said a person would find me here to discuss the details. I assume that is you.” Her voice tightened in anger. “Is Phillip Bingham the town lunatic?”

“No, but I’m sorry to tell you he’s very much dead.” Cal gave her a recap of his meeting with Isaac.

As Meg listened, her eyes widened in astonishment. “Phillip Bingham died decades ago? How could he know I’d lose my job this week and be desperate enough to jump at this crazy offer?”

Cal ran a hand through his hair. “How did he know either of us would even be born?”

Meg took a wary step back. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

“I’m not sure I believe it myself. Listen, do you want to go somewhere and talk? Try to figure this out? I’ll call Isaac, tell him we found each other, and demand an explanation.”

Meg cocked her head toward the entrance of the corn maze. “Do you hear that? Someone called for help.”

“Probably lost in the maze. George made it extra challenging this year.”

“No, it’s different.” She sucked in a breath. “M-my name—I swear I heard my name.”

A gust of wind rippled the stalks. They bent toward the entrance, fluttery hands beckoning them inside. Cal strained to hear past the whispery rustle of the leaves.

Almost as if they were voices…

“I’ll check it out,” he said. “Maybe someone fell and got hurt. Wait here—”

“Not a chance.” Meg bolted into the maze, and Cal ran after her. They came to the first intersection, and she skidded to a halt. “Which way?”

“Left,” Cal said without hesitation.

They dashed deeper into the field, now left, now right, now straight ahead. With each step, Cal’s path became surer as if something pulled him with an invisible cord.

Meg puffed beside him. “How do you know which way to go?”

“I-I can’t explain it.” With every breath, the air around Cal became hotter and more oppressive, pressing on his shoulders like a stifling blanket. Humidity dropped to nothing. Beads of sweat on his brow evaporated. Cal licked his dry, cracked lips and grimaced at the gritty feel of sand on his tongue.

Sand in a corn maze?

They turned a corner and stumbled into a clearing. In the center was an arbor that arched over a circle of flagstones on the ground. A glowing flame hovered above the stones, suspended in midair. Meg and Cal exchanged dumbfounded looks and stepped forward. The clarion note of a distant horn sounded a soldier’s call to action. A surge of adrenaline flooded Cal’s veins. He hadn’t felt like this since his days on patrol with the Army. Unconsciously, Cal’s hand went to his hip, reaching for the sword. He stared at his empty hand. Sword?

The flame grew larger and brighter, shooting through the arbor into the heavens.

“Cal!” Meg’s voice sounded very far away.

“I’m here!” Cal reached for her, but the flame blinded him, blotting out the maze, blotting out the sun, blotting out the world.

Nothing remained but the roar of the cheering crowd.

 

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The Ten Most Important Commandments for Writers (to Ignore)

 Ten Commandments for Writers (to Ignore)

1. Thou shalt write every day, according to a strict schedule, at the exact same time, and in the exact same place.

Oh please. I have a life. It’s great to set aside time to write, but other stuff has to get done, too. Don’t be so glued to a schedule, there’s no room for spontaneous fun.

 2. Thou shalt master one genre and stick to it forever.

Why? Maybe this one genre isn’t really for you. Maybe you’re better at something else. Maybe you’d be happier writing something else. Maybe you simply like more than one genre. Of course, if you’re a Baptist minister who wants to try a hand at male-on-male erotica…well, that’s what pen names are for.

 3. Thou shalt stick to one age group and never try to write for another.

Again, why? Go ahead. I will applaud your endeavors and there is no such thing as the writing police to haul you away to literary prison.

 4. Thou shalt write what you know.

I don’t know anything, but I do know how to use a web browser. It’s called research. If it’s done well, the book reads correctly and people think you’re much smarter than you are. (A definite plus in life.)

 5. Thou shalt neglect other parts of your life.

Sheesh. Do you really want to spend years alone, huddled in an unheated attic, eventually succumbing to an upper respiratory disease because no one bothered to look in on you? Not me.

 6. Thou shalt suffer for your art.

I don’t suffer for anything. All writers hit a roadblock once in a while. We write through it or put the project away and come back later. If every word is a constant agony, don’t write. Yeah, you heard me. This is not failure. This is life. Sometimes plans work, sometimes they don’t, but life is always too short to be miserable. Find what makes you happy. Of course, if being miserable makes you happy, keep plugging away at that unfinished novel.

7. Thou must edit, edit, and edit again.

Editing is important, but there comes a time when looking at that manuscript makes your stomach heave. Then it’s time to give it to someone else to read. Unless penning a journal, what good is writing if no one ever reads it? Get it out there. Get critical feedback. Excessive self-editing is useless, but editing with a purpose, knowing where to cut, and what needs to be clarified is essential.

8. Thou shalt read all you can in your genre and ignore everything else.

Nope. Every once in a while, read something in another genre, one you ordinarily wouldn’t pick. There’s plenty of good stuff out there and choosing something different may jumpstart braincells and give unexpected inspiration.

9. Thou shalt travel for inspiration

If you can travel, terrific. If not, one word. Internet. I can’t afford to go globetrotting. Heck, in this day of Covid, I’d be happy to sit at the corner bistro again without feeling as if I’m surrounded by a curtain of germs. Until that time, the internet is loaded with pictures, maps, and excellent travel writing, both current and historical.

10. Thou shalt not have a prologue or epilogue

Why not? Prologues and epilogues can be fun ways add a little extra detail to a story without interrupting the flow. The key word is little. Prologue and epilogues should be short. If not, stop kidding yourself. They’re chapters.

There you have it. Ten pearls of wisdom. Use them or lose them without guilt.

Weird Plague Treatments or Put Down that Chicken

 Weird Plague Treatments or Put Down that Chicken

Well, it’s been over a year. Our good friend Covid is like that one annoying relative that shows to ruin every get-together and won’t go away. Our ancestors survived bouts of the Black Death with their homemade treatments. I say it’s time to reach back in history and start trying them again.

Helpful Animals or What is Mom Doing with that Chicken?

Snakes often got the blame for the plague, their evil vapors fouling the air, but they could make amends. According to Medieval medicine, one evil attracts another, so pieces of an “evil” snake placed on the patient would draw out the evil sickness. Low and behold, they were cured. Or died of blood poisoning. 

Squeamish about snakes? How about leeches? They were used to suck out the “bad” blood that caused the disease and leave the good blood in the body. Or not, and the patient died. Then there’s also chopped up pigeons. Rub bloody parts all over and stand back while the cure takes hold or the neighbors call the cops.

My favorite treatment is the Vicary Method, named after an ancient doctor named Thomas Vicary. I can’t understand why it hasn’t made the rounds. He was a doctor, for heaven’s sake. He must have known what he was doing. Of course, back then being a doctor didn’t require a medical degree, basic knowledge of sanitation, or even common sense. The Vicary Method should really have been called, “What the Hell are you Doing with that Chicken?” The noble doctor would pluck feathers from a chicken’s rump, and then tie the chicken to the patient, so the rump touched an open sore. He believed chickens breathed through their bottoms, so the semi-plucked chicken would draw the plague from the patient. The idea of transmitting a bacterial infection never crossed his mind. If the patient died, so be it. If chicken died first, he’d simply slap on another.

Out of Chicken Butts? Try Vegetables or Emeralds.

For the vegetarians among you or those low on chicken butts there other cures guaranteed 100% effective by our Medieval ancestors. Rub onions on your skin or a eat a combination of mustard, mint sauce, apple sauce and horseradish to balance wet, dry, hot and cold humors in the body. It will definitely effect a cure, if it doesn’t cause the runs first. Have a delicate digestion? Down a delicious crushed emerald. No emeralds lying around? Other tasty suggestions were drinking vinegar, arsenic, mercury or even ten-year-old treacle. Why it had to be ten-years-old is beyond me, but what’s the point of waiting for it to age? The arsenic and mercury would put you six feet under immediately.

Treatments that May be Worse than the Disease.

Clean urine had healing properties, according to ancient medical texts. So, they advised suffers to dive right into a urine bath. Poop mixed with lily root and tree sap was guaranteed to chase away the plague and anyone else with a sense of smell.

For a last resort use flagellation. People whipped themselves to purge their bodies of the sins that brought the plague in the first place. Other believed the hell with that. The best way to chase away the plague was in wild abandon so sickness couldn’t catch you; pillage, loot and then party until the cows come home. I’m with them.

Fruitcake: The Worst Dessert Ever

 

December 27 is National Fruitcake Day where we sit around and sing the praise of the fruitcake. That takes all of about 10 seconds because it’s the worst dessert ever with the subtle piquant flavor of burnt popcorn and mud. Some of you may like fruitcake and I’m so sorry you were born without taste buds. Perhaps science will find a cure some day and you will finally understand why the rest of us gape at you in horror as you shovel the stuff in without gagging.

As a child, every year we were gifted with a fruitcake from an aged relative. She is to be forgiven since she grew up during the Depression when people were so poor, they only ate discarded clothing. By comparison, fruitcake was a small step up. The only way to make it palatable was to douse it in the strongest alcohol available. It didn’t improve the taste, but after one slice you didn’t care.

Fruitcake has a long, inglorious history. The ancient Romans made a mishmash of barley, pomegranate seeds, nuts, and raisins into a sort of energy bar; It was shaped into a cake and called a “satura.” Because it was easy to tote around and lasted for so long without going bad, Roman soldiers brought it to the battlefields as a snack. It was also used as a weapon against the Visigoths. Unfortunately, they had fruitcake of their own, so the battle was a draw.

During the Middle Ages dried fruits became more widely available and were mixed with bread doughs. To prevent spoilage alcohol was added to kill bacteria and taste buds. The preservative process caused these breads to last through a long cold winter. In Elizabethan times, fruitcakes often contained meat, fruit juices, sugar, preserved fruits and enough wine and sherry to choke a horse. After a while, the meat was eliminated. Why bother when you had that much wine and sherry?  More fruit took its place. Cooks began soaking fruits in sugar and drying them. Around this time, nuts were also added and then all of that slop was added to a heavy cake batter. It became known as "plum pudding” or “Blimey, what is this mess?”

In England, fruitcake is traditional at British weddings. It was customary for unmarried wedding guests to put a slice of fruitcake under their pillow at night so they could dream about the person they would eventually marry. (Eating it caused nightmares.) Fruitcake was also served to English Christmas carolers, which may be a reason it became so popular for the holidays. It was banned in the 18^th century when it was mistakenly thought to be the cause of a cholera epidemic, although some of us still have doubts.

Variations on the fruitcake sprung up in other countries. Italy's dense panforte dates back to 13th century Sienna; Germany's stollen, a tapered loaf coated with melted butter and powdered sugar has been a Dresden delicacy since the 1400s with its own annual festival. The Caribbean has black cake, a boozy descendant of Britain’s plum pudding where the fruit is soaked in rum for months, or even as long as a year. The tradition of making fruitcakes for special occasions such as weddings and holidays gained in popularity in the 18th and 19th centuries. It was a grand indulgence due to the cost of the materials, but how it came to be a Christmas punishment is a mystery.

Getting rid of fruitcake without actually eating it.

While December 27 is National Fruitcake Day, a little more than a week later, on January 7, comes Fruitcake Toss Day. Before the pandemic, one town in Colorado had an ingenious solution to unwanted fruitcake. Manitou Springs held a contest to see who could throw their fruitcakes the farthest and with the greatest accuracy. People built catapults, slingshots, or just hurled the cakes by hand. Lest you mourn food going to waste remember this is fruitcake, banned by the Geneva Convention as a weapon of mass destruction. Also, competitors were required to bring an edible donation to the local food bank. Anything except fruitcake. Let’s hope the tradition continues. That fruitcake won’t toss itself. So get out there tomorrow and hurl your fruitcake across the street to the neighbor’s yard and then run like hell so they don’t spot you and hurl it back.