I'm one of those strange people who loves fruitcake. In the past, one of my traditions was to get my mother's fruitcake recipe out just before Thanksgiving and make it. That recipe made a huge fruitcake that practically filled up an angel-food cake pan. I'd eat a piece every day right through Christmas and have it finished off by New Year's eve.
Because I'm a glutton like that, I haven't made fruitcake for years. Yesterday we were at Walmart; Cliff had his cart with oil and man-stuff in it, and I had my cart with groceries. We were headed toward the checkout when I saw a display of little fruitcakes. They were fairly cheap; I could tell by looking they wouldn't be the best fruitcake I ever had, but there's no such thing as bad fruitcake in my book.
I paused, looking at those little fruitcakes, and told Cliff I was tempted to buy one. He said, "I'll buy you a fruitcake," and put one in his cart.
After we got home, I put most of the groceries away while I fixed dinner. Once Cliff left for work, I remembered the fruitcake and started looking for it.
It was nowhere to be found. I called his cell.
"I saw it on the back of the kitchen table," he said.
It wasn't there. I looked in the trunk, all over the garage, in the refrigerator and freezer.
Cliff thinks Iris ate it; she has been known to counter-surf. However, if she did, she ate paper and all.
You can't make this stuff up, and it gets worse the older we get.
I guess I'll blame the dog.
By the way, my Farmville snowman got his hat while I slept last night, and he's now dancing his heart out.