Last year, sometime in November, I created several dozen loaves of fruitcake. I babied them for a month, feeding them XO cognac and luxury rums, before giving out several of the small ones for gifts to family, friends, and through a moment of temporary insanity, coworkers. These little labors of love were high in flavor, expense, and alcoholic value.
I’ve been nursing what remains of the original batch since then. Every few months they require but a little attention. To this moment, they’ve not yet spawned, but I’m approaching the season to remove their cheesecloth and begin their consumption. It will be only fair to retain one or two for another year’s aging, and I suppose I should start this year’s batch as well. I’ve now a two-year tradition to uphold, after all.
In any event I’ll report back shortly with pictures of how these little creatures have fared, and observations of how they taste, provided they don’t kill me. I’ll toast a slice and annoint them with a dollop of mascarpone, and see if the extra year provided any improvement over a month’s effort.