By Rochelle Almeida

I’d forgotten what a typical Bombay Christmas felt like. Seventeen years of celebrating the holiday in the United States of America had blunted my memory somewhat. But no sooner did we land on Indian soil in December 2004 than it felt as if we had spent every Christmas of our lives there. Bombay has a way of enveloping you in its warm embrace, erasing the impact of time and distance.

In the frenzied build-up to Christmas Day, we slowly realized just how many former rituals we had abandoned on having made Connecticut our home. While we brought our American customs to our loving relatives on Bandra shores—dozens of presents splendidly wrapped in ribbons and knotty bows, for one thing; turkey with stuffing, gravy and cranberry sauce, for another—we slowly unearthed memories of the sort of uniquely Bombay practices we had almost forgotten.

So we revived tradition, strolling along Hill Road on Christmas Eve as we watched last-minute shoppers haggle for sequined buntings and readymade marzipan. We took snapshots of skinny, swarthy skinned Santas, ringing their bells listlessly outside department stores as they distributed sweets to energetic toddlers. We bought a dozen cardboard stars to carry home to Southport to decorate our own double glazed windows when the next winter came around. With greatest excitement, we dressed in the middle of the night to arrive in church well in time to bag good seats at the midnight service, still somewhat startled to find that we didn’t need to muffle ourselves up in hats, coats, scarves, gloves, stockings and snow boots.

Most fun of all was indulging in the joy of The Christmas Visit. The custom undoubtedly originated in the days when trams trundled along twin tracks and red double decked buses plied through Bombay’s virtually empty streets. Encouraged by the notion that traveling long distance to the far-flung suburbs to see extended family was a thrilling adventure and not the cut-throat obstacle race into which it has degenerated, merry-makers in years gone by set out eagerly to meet relatives during the Christmas ‘season’. It is little wonder, that as the city’s hordes have burgeoned and commuting has become a nightmare, this charming ritual has all but disappeared. Determined to see as many of our relatives and friends as we possibly could, we undertook the arduous task of commuting through the length and breadth of Bombay, bearing gifts and goodwill—both of which were very warmly welcomed everywhere.

Part of the Christmas Visit, as old-timers will remember, is the mandatory tasting, once comfortably seated in festooned living rooms, of the hostess’ culinary prowess. It amazed me that most Bombayites now bottle their own wine. Every kind of vintage passed our marveling lips as we indulged in festive spirits–the ‘house wine’. Ginger wine and rice wine, carrot wine and raisin wine, tomato wine and beetroot wine were served in cute shot glasses as we tipsily did the rounds.

Then came the platter of Christmas sweets, known in Konkani-speaking homes as kuswar. What a delight it was for us to partake of the mixed offerings of kulkuls and neuris, chaklis and nankatais, rose cookies and marbles, marzipan and milk cream, chocolate fudge and coconut toffee that were laid out enticingly before us. It was obvious that endless weeks of sweat equity had poured into the creation of these exquisite treats. Bags of flour, kilos of sugar, shovels of poppy seed, bushels of candied fruit and brimming cups, overflowing with milk and honey, had found their way into toffee and biscuits that melted like snowflakes on our salivating tongues.

And then, of course, there was the piece de resistance of every Christmas platter—the Fruit Cake. Each home has its prized recipe, culled from grandparents of generations long gone with the wind. Every home chef has a story that will be gladly shared with anyone who cares to listen and the Christmas Visit provides the most appropriate opportunity. Always focused on the finer points of cake making, some tales whisper of secret sources from whence precious ingredients are purchased. Others will tell about a great-aunt who passed on a fiercely-guarded family recipe with her last breath while gasping on her death bed. Another will boast of the care that went into the fastidious weighing and measuring of dried fruit and spices. Yet others will lower their voices and conspiratorially inform you that it has to do with the amount and quality of alcohol that has permeated the mixture. Some soak their dried fruit in choice brandy for weeks before the swollen raisins hit the batter. Others will swear by the sagacity of poking holes in the finished product and dousing it daily with a tablespoon of rum. The list goes on and the secrets to memorable fruitcake making are legion.

Of the many fruit cakes to which our taste buds were treated was the one we bit into at the Bandra home of Romanee Menzies. Romanee was one of my brightest students in the English Honors class at Jai Hind College more than twenty years ago. Our friendship was cemented by her registration to take her Masters degree in English at the University of Bombay where I was also a Visiting Professor. Furthered by her frequent visits to New York as a stewardess with Air-India, our friendship flourished and stood the test of time. It was inevitable that her home would be on my list when I visited Bombay for Christmas.

One bite of her fruit cake confirmed that in the many weeks of Christmas Visiting in which we had joyfully indulged, hers was indeed the best. Her cake was the epitome of gastronomic perfection. A perfect balance of sugar and spice made the slice taste like poetry on my palate. Plumb with the addition of robust rum, a medley of raisins, sultanas, glaced cherries and dried apricots, harmoniously wove through the dough that held them gently together in an affectionate hug. Texture was provided by the toasted nuts—walnuts and almonds–that waltzed into the finale leaving gentle grace notes. And the touch of genius—cinnamon and cloves, nutmeg and the softest whisper of ground cardamom—enhanced the offering and made it memorable. This, I thought, was why the Israelites survived their forty years in the desert. This is how manna from the Gods must taste.

When I surfaced from the depths of my peregrination, I turned to my friend. “This cake is superb, Romanee”, I pronounced, enthusiastically. “Is it, by any chance, homemade?”

Certain that I was being facetious, Romanee said, “Go on, Rochelle, stop pulling my leg”.

I stared at her blankly, having no clue what she meant.

“I’m serious,” I said. “This is the best fruit cake I’ve eaten all season. What’s your secret?”

“You have to be joking”, she insisted.

Then, when she realized that I was genuinely all at sea, she said, “It’s your recipe, Rochelle. Don’t you remember?”
My recipe? I was deeply bewildered. Exactly what did she mean?

“You passed this recipe on to me”, she said. “Years ago. Maybe twenty years ago.”

When she saw the expression on my face, she said, “My God. I believe you have forgotten. The recipe was in your book”.

My book? What book? Reaching far away into the deepest recesses of my memory, I tried to retrieve images that had long deserted me.

“It was a children’s book”, she reminded me. “You used to make this cake every year when you lived in Bombay and I always loved it. When you were leaving India, I begged for the recipe so I could make the cake myself.  I think of you every single Christmas when I bake it.”

She could have knocked me down with a feather. When she saw how dazed I was by her revelation, she said, “Rochelle, I can’t believe you’ve forgotten everything. You are as nutty as a fruitcake”.

It all came back to me then, slowly. Images resurfaced, blurred at first, then sharpening rapidly as I willed them to do.

I recalled the enthusiasm with which I shopped for my ingredients at Mulchand on Hill Road, long before most people’s thoughts turned to Christmas. Yes, way in advance, in the beginning of October, I made my grocery list and set out to buy the precious dried fruit and nuts. At home, I measured the fruit carefully, toasted the nuts to release their essential oils, sifted flour conscientiously to eliminate the dreaded lumps, ground my spices the old-fashioned way in a pestle and mortar, wielded a sturdy wooden spoon and smooshed the batter in a large ceramic basin as the oven steadily warmed. Cake tins–greased, floured, then lined with greased brown paper–sat ready on the counter, eager to receive the fragrant batter as raisin, spice, sugar and brandy made music together.
The first appetizing aromas emanating from the kitchen announced that the cake was on the verge of completion. Aflutter with anticipation, I peered in through the tantalizing glass window and gazed upon my creation. Medieval cooks in the days of Chaucer had stood over massive wood-fired brick hearths and experienced the same trepidation. When the cake was extracted from the hot interior of the oven, I could barely wait to ascertain its readiness. The clean knitting needle was inserted in the center “to test for doneness” as the recipe recommended. When it emerged clean, my joy was complete. Another year of cake baking had been successfully accomplished. Now it only awaited its alcoholic bath before being crowned twice over with almond and royal icing in proper British tradition.

The months of October, November and December dragged drunkenly on as the cake drank its daily sundowner. A peg of rum each evening soaked into the holes dug deep into the cake. Then, carefully wrapped in greaseproof paper and many layers of aluminum foil, it went back into the cupboard to ‘mature’ slowly, to develop depth and complexity.

Three days before Christmas, while everyone else was up to their elbows in cake flour, I was blanching my almonds and grinding them to a fine paste for my marzipan icing. Skillfully rolled out with my heirloom marble rolling pin, the almond icing was expertly fitted over the cake dome and draped around its sides. Then, a glossy coat of stiff meringue, peaks glowing pointedly, enveloped the entire creation and was left to dry and harden into royal icing. A few poinsettia petals in red marzipan and a few green leaves were the finishing touches on my annual Fruit Cake. On Christmas night, returning home to open gifts following midnight mass, family members sipped wine, bit into the cake and, to a man, pronounced it the finest fruitcake they had ever eaten.

With Romanee’s cake still in my hand, these visions came crowding back to bathe me in nostalgia. Most of all, I recalled the book that had imparted to me the secrets of superior fruitcake making. It was, in fact, a childrens’ cookbook published in 1979 by Ladybird Books of Loughborough, UK, entitled Learnabout Making and Decorating Cakes by Lynne Peebles. I had bought the book in 1982 at the Strand Book Store at Fort for the princely sum of Rs. 9.00. At a time when I was just learning to bake cakes myself, it seemed the perfect instructor–the kind that teaches little ones how to get cracking in the kitchen–literally! Through progressive steps, young ones are taught how to crack an egg to mix into a batter, how to grease and line cake tins, how to flour dried fruits and nuts to prevent them from sinking to the bottom. As they progress through the pages, kiddie chefs learn more complex skills, graduating finally to the delectable Fruit Cake.

I made the fruit cake only once after my immigration to the United States. I discovered, at the end of that first Christmas on foreign soil, that fruitcake is the butt of merciless, unending mirth in the USA. Considered the most hackneyed of holiday gifts, used in creative ways as paperweights, indeed even as doorstops, the poor fruitcake has been relegated to the pages of holiday jokes and stand-up comediennes’ one-liners. When I realized how unappreciated this delicacy is in my adopted country, I stopped making it, and, as time went by, lost my own fruitcake baking skills in the bargain. Time obliterated all memory of this annual tradition in my life. I could barely remember that I had once owned such a book or wielded such complex culinary skills.

Our Christmas Visit to Bombay brought it all rushing back to me. Why had I allowed prevailing cultural customs in America to so alter my own pleasure in the delights of Christmas cake? When I recovered from the shock of knowing that the cake was a product of my own recipe, I resolved to revive the tradition in my own home in Connecticut. Regardless of prevailing American attitudes towards fruitcake, I would bake my extravaganza once again and exalt in it.

Last year, I fished my old and well-thumbed book out from the farthest reaches of my bookshelves. In imitation of my moves in days of old, I went through each of the motions involved in baking a superlative fruitcake from shopping for ingredients to placing the last poinsettia bud in the center.

When I sliced the cake and served it after midnight mass in December 2005 (after we had extricated ourselves from under layers of hats, coats, scarves, gloves, stocking and snow boots), we gathered around a roaring fire in our Connecticut home, raised a toast to Jesus on yet another birthday and revived a long forgotten Bombay tradition.

Why wasn’t I surprised when everyone, to a man, pronounced it the best fruitcake they had ever eaten?