Shannon Phillips

My holiday fruitcakes are in the oven right now, filling the house with their deep, rich, spicy aroma. I love fruitcake. When I was growing up, my mom’s aunt Louise sent us a wonderful, intense, rum-soaked fruitcake every Christmas, and it was always received with great delight. A few years ago I set out to try and make similar fruitcakes of my own (the dry, storebought versions with their lurid cherry toppings in improbably day-glo colors are no comparison), and I found Alton Brown’s recipe, which is entirely satisfactory. I’ve made it every holiday season since.

Now I understand that there are people in this world who like to scoff at fruitcake, but I’m pretty sure that these people have simply been eating the wrong fruitcakes. The real thing is fantastic.

Meanwhile, Robin is on his stomach watching his toy train (an early Christmas present from his Uncle Bobby) going around our tree:

Our stockings have, with all due care, been hung by the chimney:

Our advent calendar (a gift from Robin’s Nonna and Pappy) is up-to-date:

And generally we are feeling pretty festive. We’re just back from seeing Pops and Mo and all of my siblings except for the boys’ Uncle Jesse (who was missed) in Arkansas—it was a lovely visit, although unfortunately we all developed the sniffles on the way back. Stupid plane germs! But even that’s not all bad—Sam stayed home sick today, and so was able to perform Valuable Cuddle Services while I worked on my holiday baking.