“Nothing great is created suddenly, any more than a bunch of grapes or a fig. If you tell me that you desire a fig, I answer you that there must be time. Let it first blossom, then bear fruit, then ripen.”
—Epictetus (c. 50–135 CE; Greek Stoic philosopher whose teachings emphasized the importance of self-discipline, resilience, and living in harmony with nature.)
Simple things in life make me smile: snowflakes kissing my face, the scent of fresh sourdough bread baking in the oven, and even the gentle symphony of Ruby’s snoring as she sleeps. However, of all the joys that I treasure—small and big—one that stands out is the straightforward act of sharing: ideas, consolation, time well spent together, meals at the table, breads, cakes, and yes, even recipes. Those moments of connection take me beyond myself toward something truly meaningful.
Recently, I shared my mother’s celebrated fruitcake recipe, and in the act of sharing, I savored an unexpected, sweet reward of my own.
I passed the recipe on to a friend exactly as my mother had passed it on to me.
It starts with all the ingredients. It’s a hefty cake with four pounds of cherries, golden raisins, pineapple, and pecans. For the batter, it has just enough to hold the fruit and nuts together, but even then it has a half dozen jumbo eggs, a pound of butter, and a magical blend of lemon juice, vanilla, freshly grated nutmeg, cinnamon, and allspice. All of those ingredients can be measured and weighed with perfect precision. But my mother put in another ingredient that knows neither measure nor weight: an extra dose of love.
After the ingredients, the recipe moves through all the steps. Lining the cake pan with parchment. Packing the mixture into the pan to achieve an even distribution of fruits, nuts, and batter. Baking at a low temp with a tray of water in the bottom of the oven.
Once the cake is done, it gets decorated with flowers made of pineapple wedges and cherries and returned to the oven for a few minutes, so the decorations will stick. When it emerges from the oven, another phase of the process begins. The cake cools on a rack until it can be turned out onto a towel, wrapped, and left to rest overnight, as if preparing for the transformative journey ahead.
The next morning, the ritual of wrapping and aging begins. A sheet of Saran Wrap is spread out on the counter, ready to embrace the cake. On top of it, cheesecloth soaked just right—not too wet, not too dry—with peach brandy is carefully arranged. The cake is placed at the center, a treasure waiting to be preserved. My mother’s instructions are precise:
“Fold the cheesecloth snugly around the cake, then do the same with the Saran Wrap, ensuring every inch is covered.”
Finally, the whole package is encased in heavy-duty foil, its armor for the weeks of aging ahead:
“Store in a cool room for two weeks,” her notes instruct. “Then carefully open, refresh the cheesecloth with more brandy, and rewrap.”
The process is repeated, patience layered upon patience, as the cake soaks in the flavors, deepening and maturing over time. Only then—after weeks of care and tending and extra doses of love all along the way—is the fruitcake ready for the refrigerator, where it will wait for its moment to be gifted or served.
Her final tip is practical, but it carries a poetic truth:
“The cake slices best when cold but eats best at room temperature.”
It’s a nod to the reward of patience—how time and care yield something truly remarkable.
If it sounds like a daunting recipe, it is. It’s not for the faint-of-heart baker. In fact, when I was getting ready to share the recipe, I was in the midst of baking fruitcakes myself. It occurred to me that perhaps I should take some photographs and include them beside the corresponding steps. I changed my mind, though, because my friend is an accomplished baker, and I figured that her bake would be as right as it could ever be for a first attempt.
After all, my mother didn’t get it right the first time. That’s why she spent decades perfecting her perfect fruitcake—a recipe honed with precision, patience, and a deep understanding of the process. Her fruitcake, like so much in life, wasn’t about instant gratification. It was about the slow, steadfast practice of doing something right, ingredient by ingredient, step by step, until it was as close to perfection as she could make it.
The lesson my mother’s fruitcake offers goes far beyond baking. It reminds me how patience and practice are at the heart of everything worth doing well. The recipe might call for precise measurements, but the same principle applies to so many aspects of life, where consistent effort, persistence, and time are the ingredients for success.
Take education, for instance. Mastering any skill—whether reading, writing, or ‘rithmetic—demands patience from both the student and the teacher. As an educator, I’ve seen firsthand how true understanding doesn’t come overnight. It’s built step by step, through trial, error, and those quiet “aha” moments that can’t be rushed. Teaching requires not only patience but also an extra dose of love: the care to meet students where they are, to encourage them when they stumble, and to celebrate their victories, big and small.
The same holds true in career paths. When I reflect on my time as a civil servant and later as an educator, I see how persistence shaped my journey. A fulfilling career isn’t something you stumble into—it’s built through detours and unexpected challenges that teach you resilience. Like fruitcake, careers need time to mature. And they need love: the passion for what you do, the commitment to make a difference, and the willingness to pour yourself into your work even when progress feels slow.
In personal goals, too, patience and practice are essential. Whether it’s pursuing health, creative aspirations, or even learning a new skill, success rarely comes in leaps and bounds. It’s incremental. It’s showing up, day after day, even when progress feels slow. And the secret ingredient? Love for the process itself—finding joy in the small victories, the moments when you feel yourself growing, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing you’re doing your best.
Relationships may be where patience and practice are most important of all. Building strong connections with others takes time, effort, and a willingness to grow alongside each other. Forgiveness, understanding, and communication are not one-time efforts; they’re practices we return to over and over. Like a fruitcake wrapped and aged, the best relationships deepen and become richer over time, with care, attention, and those extra doses of love that make them truly sweet.
Finally, spirituality. If there’s one area of life where practice and patience are truly a lifelong journey, it’s in connecting with something greater than ourselves. Clarity and peace often come in whispers, not shouts. Spiritual growth is about showing up—whether in prayer, meditation, or simply being present—and trusting that the sweetness will unfold when the time is right. I think of moments in my own life when answers came slowly, like the fruitcake aging in brandy, revealing their richness only after time and quiet reflection. And through it all, love is the thread: love for the journey, love for the questions as much as the answers, and love for the connection that binds us to the greater whole.
Each of these areas reminds me that, like my mother’s fruitcake, the things we cherish most in life aren’t created in a moment. They require steady hands, careful tending, and those extra doses of love that infuse meaning into every step of the process. Who would have thought that, all along, my mother was passing down a sweet recipe for life?
The Wired Researcher 