As I went inside to pay for my gas Wednesday at Hal Smith’s Big Cat station, I couldn’t help but notice a strange multi-colored, plastic-wrapped log near the pen jar by the register.
“Seriously?” I asked the cashier staff in an incredulous tone. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” “Nope, they’re for real.”
Indeed, they were.
Old Fashion Claxton Fruit Cake, there for the discerning gas station gourmet.
“And people actually buy these and eat them?” I asked, fearing what the answer might be.
“Oh yeah. Mr. Hal eats them.”
My head began to hurt. I began to immediately question Ms. Carol Smith, Hal’s wife, as to the veracity
of the earlier statement.
“He eats them,” she said, matter-of-factly.
When questioned if she herself indulged in the candied fruit laced baked goods, she demurred. “He eats them,” she repeated. “I don’t.”
Perhaps there was sanity in the world after all.
I don’t like fruitcake.
Never have, never will.
I don’t wish to demean the good people of Claxton, Ga., or their product, which has existed much longer than I have on this planet, but I’m almost certain this year’s batch will ong outlast them, me and possible a nuclear winter.
