To Market. To Market

My husband went and did the grocery shopping for Christmas dinner yesterday. This morning, as I looked in the fridge, I realized that he had forgotten we'd need to eat some meals in the thirty-six hours or so before that meal, so I ended up braving the grocery store today. Not too bad for Christmas Eve. It'll probably reach a state of crisis there sometime after noon, I expect. 

Guess what went missing at the market?

Yes, the Hostess Fruitcake display is gone. There is no way on Earth that those things sold in the last few days, so I'm working on some conspiracy theories as to their whereabouts. My most plausible explanations are that the store manager is giving them to the employees as holiday gifts or that they've crumbled them up and put them in whipped cream and are selling them in the deli as a perverse "salad" of sorts. (I did have a coworker a few years back who brought a "salad" to the office potluck. Its ingredients: Snicker bars, pretzels, granny smith apples, and Cool Whip. So, my theory is not without precedent.) 

Aside from my chagrin at missing out on one last opportunity to take a picture of the fruitcakes on the sly, my trip to the store was rewarding, mostly due to the efforts of the bag boy in the checkout aisle next to mine. If he actually was sixteen, it was just barely, and he had that wonderfully-awkward quality about him. His clothes were a little too big, his hair was hanging in his eyes, and, if he has been shaving, it's just been practice - going through the motions until the actual whiskers arrive. Part of his job, along with remembering not to put the canned corn on top of the bread, was to tell people to have a nice day and wish them a happy holiday. 

From my vantage point in line, I could see him building up the courage to speak to each customer after packing their groceries. He'd wind up before each pitch by pursing his lips together and blinking a few times. Then he'd say it: "Have a nice day. Merry Christmas!" A look of relief and accomplishment would spread across his face. I did it! Big grin. Subtle twitch in the right hand signifying Yes! 

I loved watching this young man's confidence build each time he managed to talk to total strangers and not die from embarrassment. I had gone to the store thinking, Oh, crap. I don't want to stand in line on Christmas Eve. If I hadn't gone, though, I would have missed this little show entirely. And the sale on meatballs, of course.

Cross My Heart

Really, I'm not just posting the same picture of the Hostess Fruitcakes over and over again. I promise this is, in fact, a new photo.

I've gotten a few strange looks from other shoppers as I lurk about the display with my cell phone in hand. I try to look nonchalant, as if I'm about to do something legitimate and normal - like call home and ask if we need frozen corn, perhaps - rather than take another surreptitious photo of the fruitcakes. I go to such lengths for you!

Today's Hostess Fruitcake Status Check

I suspect they just have a staff member shuffle the cakes around in the display every now and then. So, so sad.

Fruitcake Status Update

I went to the grocery store again. 

(We were out of cheese, but that's another story.) 

Anyhow, I took a gander at the Hostess Fruitcake display and, lo and behold, about half a dozen of them have been sold. At $3.99 each, no less.

It's a Christmas miracle.

In Contrast

This morning I stood for a while at the grocery store, awestruck by three freezer cases fully-stocked with Frosty Trees (... and Snowmen. Eh.) Had they heard the message of love I sent out to them yesterday? When I regained the ability to move, I turned and saw the saddest of all holiday consumer good point-of-purchase displays: the Hostess Fruit Cakes.

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.