Now and then it returns to me, a recurring holiday
         nightmare, the ghost of Christmas past.  I am sitting
         crosslegged on the floor of my grandmother's living room.
         The Christmas tree is ablaze with color.  Dinner is finished.
         My parents, aunts and uncles, stuffed to bursting with the
         Christmas repast, are lounging like beached porpoises on
         chairs and divans.

              The hymn my grandmother has been singing in the kithcen
         suddenly ceases, and she appears, bright-faced in the
         doorway, carrying a plate filled with fruitcake slices.

              There is no clear escape route.

              "Try just one piece," my father commands.  "It's part of
         Christmas.  Your grandma made it special."

              I extend my palm to receive what I will eventually come
         to think of as one of the seven danger signals of Christmas.

              Toa child, the problems with fruitcake are legion.

              * It is filled with all manner of ingredients a child
         would normally eat only at gunpoint:  dates, figs, pieces of
         garden hose.

              * It is laced with booze.

              * Because it is prepared with dried or de-hydrated
         fruits, it begins to grow as soon as it makes contact with
         moisture.  A one-ounce slice of fruitecake, if not swallowed
         immediately, quickly rehydrates in the mouth to the weight of
         an econo-size loaf of Velveeta.

              * The dog will not eat it, making covert disposal
         especially difficult.  I stuffed mine between the pages of
         the romance magazines my grandmother kept hidden under a
         chair cushion in another room.  She could not publicly blame
         me for what I had not eaten without acknowledging what she
         was reading.

              Once I was old enough to "just say no" to fruitcake, I
         did.  Nor have I met another adult my age or younger who will
         actually admit to eating it.

              So why does it survive?  Why does it continue to find
         its niche in recipe books?  Why do those mail-order houses up
         near the Canadian border (the ones that package Christmas
         assortments of ersatz Gruyere, breadfruit marmalade and
         caribou-lip sausage) insist on making it a regular feature in
         their Christmas catalogs?

              I'll tell you why.  So grandmothers who have retired and
         moved to Winterhaven or Clearwater, Fla, can continue to
         inflict it upon unsuspecting relatives back in Ohio.




              Fruitcake still is with us because of mindless
         tradition, the same sort of tradition that compels us to eat
         sauerkraut on New Year's Day to assure good luck throughout
         the following months.  It continues because, not unlike a
         magazine gift subscription, it reminds the recipient of the
         fiver for at least 12 months after it has arrived.

              Incidentally, it takes a standard one-pound fruitcake
         three years to reach the critical-mass stage and blow the
         door off the front of the Amana.

              There is no truth to the rumor that only one fruitcake
         exists in the world and people keep passing it around.  So,
         if you want one and you don't think Winterhaven or Clearwater
         will be sending you one this year, here is the recipe.

                      MIKE HARDEN'S
                      FAVORITE HOLIDAY FRUITCAKE

                      1 1/2 lbs. pitted dates, dried figs,
                          finely-chopped tire retreads or
                          faucet washers
                      1 lb. candied pineapple, chopped and
                          hardened to the point it will
                          scratch glass surfaces
                      1 lb. candied cherries
                      2 cups unbleached wall spackle
                      2 teaspoons baking powder
                      1\2 teaspoon salt
                      4 eggs, shells and cartons included
                      1 cup sugar
                      2 lbs. pecans, unshelled
                      1 cup light corn syrup or similarly
                          cloying ooze (cough syrup can be
                          used in a pinch)
                      4 cups grain alcohol

              Mix ingredients in a large asbestos-lined bowl.  Pour
         into a greased 13x9-inch baking pan.  Cook at 300 degrees
         through October.  Cool

              Mail to Clearwater, Fla.