In stark contrast to the reverent, brightly-lit, glass-encased display of Frosty Trees, there sat those fruit cakes in their flimsy cardboard display. It was almost devoid of decoration and had been placed all alone in front of a wall filled with jars of peanut butter and jelly. There was a definite Well, we have to put it somewhere quality to the whole thing.
I couldn't help but feel a little sad for them. There they were, a once-a-year holiday treat, just as the Frosty Trees are, but there was no love for them. No one squealed with delight upon seeing them. If anything, people took an extra step or two to avoid any contact with them. Eyes were averted. Was there even a sign advertising their price? No, there was not. No one was buying these sad little cakes, and we all knew it.
They were like the Frosty Trees' dumpy kid sister, forced to sit and watch as her minty-sweet sibling stole the spotlight. Geez, could the employees at least have had the decency to put the fruit cakes over by those weird wafer cookies that no one buys?
My research at Hostess.com is even more chilling. They don't even acknowledge that these fruit cakes exist. They do have a fascinating page about the history of the company, however. I now know the story of the Twinkie®; apparently, the company "... hit the sponge cake gold mine in 1930 when Jimmy Dewar invented Twinkies®." Mmm, sponge cake gold mine...
The best evidence I can find of the effect of the Hostess Fruit Cake on our culture is a mocking photo essay from some folks in Chicago who took the time to do a taste test - and had the presence of mind to document it. I don't know who they are or where they work, but I sense I'd like working in that office. Just maybe not on fruit cake day, though.
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