Remember me with fruit cake.
Words Lucinda Stump
I’ve just been to a memorial service for an elderly artist friend, and it got me thinking about my own funeral.
Puff, as she was known, painted all her own greetings cards. At the back of the church, there was a little exhibition of her paintings along with a display of all the birthday, Christmas, congratulations, get-well-soon and anniversary cards that her many friends had kept and brought along to the service.
I hope my own funeral is a long way off, but I don’t think it hurts to plan, and I don’t feel in the least bit morbid talking about it.
I’m not quite sure if I want a coffin but, if I do, I think my rather gaudy Dancing with the Stars Judges’ Choice trophy from the 2016 Gwydir Industries fundraiser in Moree should go on top. At our award-winning performance, my husband and I performed to an ABBA compilation wearing dazzling silver flared onesies (best not to imagine that too much). We were helping raise funds for a magnificent enterprise that provides real work opportunities for local people with disabilities.
It’s the only trophy I’ve ever won. I do have a lone silver teaspoon that my family teases me mercilessly about (easy, when you have a shedload of trophies yourselves, to poke fun at the glaring drought in your mother’s collection). It’s engraved with the initials RPS, which stands for Rookesbury Park School, my English prep school, and stamped 1973 to commemorate my victory in the junior breaststroke event. I could have that on my coffin, but I doubt it would cause much of a stir (see what I did there?).
I rather think I’d like to send everyone home with something – something useful, something to remind them of me. Every spring, my parents, who are keen gardeners, have an impressive display of towering hollyhocks along their garden wall. These giant plants were grown from seeds lovingly collected from a friend’s garden by his children and distributed at his funeral. Year after year, my mother and father marvel at the size of the hollyhocks and remember Roddy and his wonderful garden.
Whenever I’m asked to contribute a recipe to a school or community cookbook, my great grandmother’s boiled fruit cake is the one I turn to. Sounds dull and old fashioned, but it’s very simple and has proven itself almost impossible to stuff up. I completely omitted the butter the last time I made it, and once I left it in the oven all day, waiting for the power to come back on when it was only half-cooked. Both times it worked a treat.
I always have one in the pantry (they last for months) so that I can offer any passing agronomist, truck driver or friend a hearty slice of goodwill when they turn up on the doorstep. I like to give the cake (not the recipe) as a present when someone moves house or has a baby or needs a stout pick-me-up, and I’m always happy to share the recipe. I once gave it to my friend Mardi, who decided to entertain her young grandchildren during harvest with a bit of baking. Turning her back for only a moment, the flour proved too much of a temptation and much of it was distributed around the kitchen (see evidence, pictured). At least Mardi could have been confident, given the recipe’s track record, that the cake would still work no matter how much flour ended up on the floor.
So, the recipe it is. I’ll ask that it be printed in the order of service at my funeral so everyone gets a copy. The recipe will live on, hopefully as entertainment for future generations of children cooking with their grandmothers.
