I didn’t care for the dense fruitcake with all its candied jewels in it, like bright colored cherries. I would nibble around the fruit and just eat the cake part, which left little to eat. As time, went by, I just ate the hermit cake.

The hermit cake, which is filled with dates, raisins, English walnuts and almonds, is believed to have originated as a colonial New England cookie recipe. I’m not sure how the recipe crept into our family tradition, but I’m glad for it.

The hermit cake, which is filled with dates, raisins, English walnuts and almonds, is believed to have originated as a colonial New England cookie recipe.

Papa made the cakes on a weekend afternoon in the fall, often when my mother or aunts could help with the stirring, especially as Papa got older and his hands hurt from arthritis. He baked them in the same fluted pan as his pound cakes. Then he soaked them in his homemade wine, wrapped them tightly in cheesecloth and aluminum foil and let them age for nearly a month.

The cakes arrived at our home sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas. My mother had her own tradition to greet the arrival of Papa’s cakes. She always served the moist slices of hermit and fruitcake to us with hot tea from a real China teapot. It was a winter tea party for me and my two sisters, Britta and Bernadette, as we sat at a small table in the kitchen for this ritual.

I learned a lesson that would guide me into adulthood during those meals. Food tastes better when it’s shared. Those were some treasured memories of sitting down with family and sharing that holiday tradition.

After Papa’s death in October 1988, my Uncle William Booker Moore became the keeper of Papa’s recipe notebook. But Papa’s instructions for making the hermit cake were incomplete. Even though I am an accomplished cook, I couldn’t determine when and how to add the ingredients in a way that would maintain the cake’s rich texture.

Executive Chef Walter Royal of Raleigh’s iconic Angus Barn restaurant stepped in and updated Papa’s recipe for me. He sent me the cake, and I took it to my mother’s home in Lynchburg that Christmas. As she cut the dense cake and put a piece in her mouth, I saw a few tears in her eyes. I knew she was thinking about her daddy.