23. Miss Fogarty’s Christmas Cake

Composed by Charles Frank Horn, 1883 Adapted by Mick Moloney, arr. Robbie O’Connell

People outside Ireland have no idea how integral the Christmas cake was to the Irish Yuletide celebrations. Unlike the unwanted brick-like fruitcakes that are annually regifted across America, the Irish Christmas cake was a cultural icon and a noble tradition, now sadly falling into decline. There was an elaborate ritual attached to the baking and decoration of the cake in our house and I’m sure similar customs prevailed in other Irish homes.

Sometime at the end of October my mother would begin assembling the ingredients for the cake, some of which, like candied fruit, might be difficult to find initially but she would persevere until she could tick off every item on her list. A careful watch would be kept on certain components, temporarily stored on the highest shelf. Items such as sultanas and the cherries were prone to late night raids by nine year olds who shall remain nameless. A once successful raid on my part, followed by a brazen overindulgence, left me with a lifelong aversion to glacé cherries.

Once the ingredients had been successfully sourced, a day was set aside for mixing and baking. A large cream colored earthenware bowl would take its place of honor on the kitchen table and the sorcery would commence. Butter, sugar and flour were beaten into a creamy mixture then eggs were carefully added, one by one, until a thick sweet paste resulted. It was critically tested against standards of previous years and any necessary adjustments were made.

Then it got really interesting as a bottle of brandy or whiskey would appear. This was a delicate point in the enterprise. A requisite amount of alcohol was necessary for preservation purposes as the finished cake would have to age for a couple of months before being consumed. Too little and the cake might spoil and too much and everyone might get tipsy.¹

This was the ideal moment to wander accidentally into the kitchen as tasters might be enlisted until a general approval was reached and the operation could proceed. I prided myself on being expert in that taste test. I would run my finger, which had to be freshly washed, along the rim of the bowl catching just enough of the pungent batter to engulf my taste buds with a fiery burst of divine nectar. The assembled variety of fruits, ground almonds, nutmeg, and who knows what else, were then added and strenuously stirred into the mixture which now had taken on a consistency like concrete in a cement mixer. It was then carefully transferred to a large cake tin lined with greaseproof paper and moved to a preheated oven with the delicacy of a neurosurgeon at the operating table.

Stern warnings were now issued in whispered voices. No doors were to be banged, no sudden moves or shouting was to take place for the next five hours. All children were banished outdoors, regardless of the weather and warned not to return until teatime. Further threats of murder were reiterated should a door be slammed or any heavy object be dropped. Any sudden shock to the atmosphere could cause all the fruit to fall to the bottom of the cake, a Christmas disaster of apocalyptic proportions to be avoided at any cost.

Once the cake was tested for done-ness, it was set to cool. It was then transferred to a tin, anointed with a further blessing of whiskey or brandy and sealed to “mature.”

All that drama was still only stage one. Several weeks later, another day was set aside for the icing and decorating of the cake. First, a quarter inch layer of a semi soft almond paste, or marzipan, was applied to all the visible surfaces of the cake which now sat proudly on a silver colored cake stand awaiting primping, like a princess before a ball. A white royal icing was layered on top of the almond paste and the artistry began. Intricate designs, befitting the descendants of the medieval manuscript illustrators, were added to the top and sides of the cake. A miniature Santa, with a sleigh and reindeer, might be added along with other shiny decorations such as a tiny Christmas tree, a sprig of holly, or little edible silver balls or dragées. Great care and artistic invention was required at this point as an unspoken, unofficial competition in the neighborhood was now in progress. No prizes were ever bestowed, no mention was ever made but notice was taken and reputations could rise or fall depending on the results.

After all that effort, the Christmas cake would sit on the sideboard for weeks leading up to the big day, resplendent in all its glitter and glory. The traditional time to cut the cake was on Christmas day after the requisite feast of roast turkey and stuffing with gravy, breaded Irish ham, mashed potatoes, a buttery blend of carrots and parsnips, along with Brussels’ sprouts for those who thought highly of themselves and mushy peas for the rest of us. The situation was further complicated by the presence of a plum pudding which doubled as a postprandial pyrotechnic display. It was drizzled with warm brandy and set alight giving off a flickering blue flame to the oohs and aahs of all present, regardless of age.

The problem then was twofold. We were usually too stuffed for cake at that point and no one wanted to be the one to destroy such a fine work of art by cutting the cake open. Consequently, it wasn’t unusual for the cake to remain on the sideboard for weeks on end, disguising itself as a mere seasonal ornament. Occasionally, it remained unnoticed for months until it could be rescued and repurposed for early Easter celebrations. All through the long winter nights, that fruit liberally laced with alcohol, had been silently fermenting within its sealed walls of rock hard icing which now rivaled the best concrete for strength and durability. I often wondered why they didn’t build bridges from that icing. They could have lasted a thousand years.

Several times, I was forced to spend a strenuous hour, with a hammer and chisel, chipping away at that adamantine icing seal in an effort to release that beautiful moist intoxicating fruit cake imprisoned inside. It would be the highlight of our Easter celebration, having risen Christlike from its snow white tomb. One dainty slice of that cake with a proper cup of tea and you could fly as high as the angels. Ah, the magic of a Christmas cake, the gift that keeps on giving.

Miss Fogarty’s Christmas Cake was published in Boston in 1883. Written by C. Frank Horn it was later popularized by the McNulty family, the premier New York Irish act from the 1930s to the 1950s. I learned it from my friend and erstwhile musical partner, Mick Moloney, who became fascinated with the vaudeville music of Irish America and subsequently recorded many songs from that era. It has the distinction of being the only song I know of that has a recipe for a chorus. The recording here is from the 2007 “A Christmas Celtic Sojourn” concert produced by Brian O’Donovan for WGBH in Boston. There are several stills in the video taken from the 2010 concert and that can be seen on YouTube.

Lyrics:

MISS FOGARTY’S CHRISTMAS CAKE

Composed by Charles Frank Horn, 1883; Adapted by Mick Moloney, arr. Robbie O’Connell²

As I sat in my window last evening
The letterman was brought round to me
A little gilt-edged invitation sayin’
Gilhooley come over to tea
Well I knew that the Fogartys sent it
So I went just for old friendships sake
And the first thing they gave me to tackle
Was a slice of Miss Fogarty’s cake

CHORUS:
There were plums and prunes and cherries
There were citrons and raisins and cinnamon, too
There was nutmeg, and cloves and berries
And a crust that was nailed on with glue
There were caraway seeds in abundance
Sure t’would work up a fine stomach ache
Ah! t’would could kill a man twice after eating a slice
Of Miss Fogarty’s Christmas cake!

Miss Mulligan wanted to try it
But really it wasn’t no use
For we worked on it over an hour
But a piece of it wouldn’t come loose
Till Kelly came in with a hatchet
And Murphy came in with a saw
This cake was enough, be the powers
To paralyze any man’s jaws


Miss Fogarty proud as a peacock
Kept smiling and blinkin’ away
Till she tripped over Flanagan’s brogáns
And she spilt the homebrew in her tea
“Aye Gilhooley she says you’re not eat’n
Try a little bit more for my sake”
“Oh no Miss Fogarty,” says I,
“For I’ve had quite enough of your cake!”

Moloney was took be the colic
O’Donnell, a pain in his head
McNulty lay down on the sofa
And he swore that he wished he was dead
And Miss Daly went into hysterics
And there she did wriggle and shake
And everyone swore they were poisoned
From eating Miss Fogarty’s cake

Yes it would kill a man twice after eating a slice
Of Miss Fogarty’s Christmas cake!

1. Editor’s note: In terms of alcohol and baking, Robbie may be confusing the cake with the pudding. In the Christmas pudding, stout and brandy are used in the baking and again when it is set alight. In the Christmas cake, the alcohol is added AFTER baking to help preserve and mature the cake over the 4-6 weeks before it is taken from the tin to be iced and decorated. When this distinction was brought to Robbie’s attention, he said it wouldn’t matter and shouldn’t ruin a good story. Bakers know otherwise.

2. PRODUCTION NOTES:
Robbie O’Connell: guitar, vocal
Shannon Heaton: flute
George Keith: fiddle
Recorded live at the Cutler Majestic Theatre by WGBH in 2007