I'm buying my grandmother rum for Christmas.

No really, I am. Rob thought I was joking when I wrote it on our Christmas shopping list, but I'm not. She has been making fruitcakes, and recently when I went to visit her she explained that one of her sons-in-law had informed her that while her fruitcake is very good, it doesn't taste quite like the fruitcake his mom used to make. So now my grandmother is on a mission to figure out what her fruitcake is missing. And her conclusion is rum. Apparently she knows this is an ingredient some women use, and although she's never baked with it before, she suspects it's the secret.

Throughout this conversation with me, my grandmother says the word rum with wide eyes and a hush in her voice. Not because it may be The Secret Ingredient, but because it is Alcohol. My grandmother, a preacher's wife, has never consumed alcohol. Actually, pretty much no one on either side of my family has. They are all very conservative and drinking alcohol just isn't acceptable. In fact, we didn't serve alcohol at our wedding so as not to offend the delicate sensibilities of the bride's side. My mom has never had a drop to drink, ever. My dad hasn't either, except for some medicinal moonshine (I know, right?) someone gave him years ago for his health, a foul-smelling concoction that sat in our fridge that Dad would struggle to sip each night before bed until the third day when he abandoned the plan with noticeable relief. It was nearly a year into my marriage before I admitted to my parents that Rob and I "occasionally" drink wine. Until then I would frantically hide the wine rack whenever they pulled into the drive. They took the news fairly well, I thought, although I still move the beer to the back of the fridge, behind tall liters of soda, whenever they come over. Wine is one thing (I mean, Jesus drank it), but I'm not sure they could ever come to terms with their daughter drinking beer. And then there was the unfortunate event a few weeks ago when my mom, looking for plastic bowls, opened the door to our liquor cabinet. She stared for a moment, stammered "That's quite a variety," and then quickly shut the door, shaking and clearly traumatized. Well fuck.

But back to my grandmother. She has decided to put rum in her fruitcake, and seems slightly titillated by the idea. She asks me if I think people would mind, and I assure her that, first of all, the alcohol will bake off and, secondly, no one needs to know. Then she becomes concerned about actually obtaining the rum. "I don't even know where to get it," she tells me. "And even if I did, I wouldn't want to be seen with it!" I suggest she send my grandfather to fetch it, which elicits a giggle from her. We both look to him, and he smiles, amused, but his eyes clearly convey that there's NO WAY IN HELL.

Of course, I am no stranger to the liquor store (although they don't know that) and I would love nothing more than to see my grandmother unwrap a bottle of rum at our Christmas get-together. With everyone watching. Because she is just mischievous enough to love that joke. She'll pull the rum from the wrapping paper, and a confused look will cross her face, and then she'll realize what it is and exclaim "KELLY!" in a mock (or perhaps real) rebuke. And then she'll laugh and laugh as everyone else absorbs the fact that I have bought our 84 year-old grandmother rum for Christmas. It is going to be fucking awesome.

She also needs a fruitcake recipe that includes rum, so if anyone has a good one, please share! I did an online search, and one of the first ones I found was this one. Click on that and read it through. Replace the rum with cooking wine and that is SO how I cook.