I'm told it's an eminently useful tool in keeping followers in touch, and I believe it is. But what if my silences are just as important as what I have to say? Take fruit cake for instance, no one questions that it has to sit there for a while, marinating in rum or brandy or whatever liqueur it is that's meant to make it a masterpiece.
My mother used to make fruit cake in August so it would be ready by December, and opening the fridge we all teetered at the promise each well-wrapped lump of foil would later yield. The indescribable satisfaction of nut, fruit and dark cake, moistly infused with brandy, which was her choice of alcohol, all of which we could only enjoy when the holidays were finally upon us.
In her country, fruit cake was also the traditional wedding cake. Surprising I know, considering how we now associate wedding cake with the fluffy, creamed sponge tiers of sugar nothings majestically decorated in full bridal regalia. A recipe that's statistically telling. But yes, aside from Christmas, fruit cake was reserved for the day a marriage was sanctified. Apt I guess, because of the time it requires to gel, to finally make sense so to speak. Eating my mother's fruit cake was also one of the few occasions I could taste alcohol without getting ill and embarrassing myself publicly. Well, not so much myself as others, I usually don't remember much after I'm sick from it, being unable to ingest it uncooked.