I went to storage and found my mother's recipe for Holiday Fruit Cake. A lot of people think of fruitcake as something to use for a doorstop, but this is not your average fruitcake. It's really delicious.
My mother would make it for the holidays for a handful of people, including Leonard, who loved it and looked forward to it every year.
Here's a scan of it written out in her handwriting as a 2-page pdf (which you can download here). She used a check mark instead of a quotation mark for "same as above", and medium dry cherry should be 'sherry'.)
She usually baked it in round bundt cake type pans with a hole in the middle. Leftover mix would be baked in a normal loaf pan.
Happy Holidays!
Sharon Robinson is a singer, music producer and Grammy winning songwriter, as well as author of "On Tour with Leonard Cohen, photographs by Sharon Robinson" (powerHouse). Sharon’s mother, Mildred Robinson, was a well-known caterer and restauranteur in Beverly Hills during the ‘60s and ‘70s. Sharon's new Album, Caffeine, will be released in early 2015.
http://www.sharonrobinsonmusic.com
https://www.facebook.com/sharonrobinsonmusic
I was never walked into a temple. Never. Not by my dad, the Jew. I thought being Jewish meant eating lox, bagel & cream cheese in a deli. Because that’s what my dad, the non-religious Jew told me. When we ate at Nate n’ Al’s, he would announce loudly as he seemed to be pointing to the food, “We’re Jews!!!”
Still looking for the perfect Christmas gift that is easy, inexpensive, and loved by all?
When our Mother was diagnosed with cancer many years ago, once we regained our balance, my sister and I plotted and planned how we would make that Christmas, her last, be the best Christmas of her life. That being such a bold plan where else could we spend that bittersweet holiday but in the countryside of France and where else but in the festive Champagne region? This was our present to our Mother and we wanted it to be grand. The night before we were to leave Maine we opened up a bottle of her favorite Champagne and handed her a glass with an envelope. Tears poured down her cheeks as she viewed the tickets to Paris, her favorite destination in the whole world with her two daughters. We promised her that she would drink Champagne everyday, but that is all we revealed of our surprise dream Christmas together.
from Dino and Martha De Laurentiis. It looks good in its elaborate wrapping, and tastes good, too, especially as French toast. But the reason we love it so much has more to do with its power to remind us - like a photograph - of the many evenings we’ve spent with this remarkable family - here in LA, in Florence, and, on the eve of the Millennium in, of all places, the South Pacific. 
as a Christmas present a few years ago, and I use it constantly. It's wand shaped, which makes it really fun to use. Sometimes I like to pretend it's a violin bow while I zest lemons and such. It also has a scabbard, and that's cool. The best thing about it is that your arm doesn't get tired, but your parmesan turns into fluffy, salty snow. It would fit nicely in a stocking, and you should seriously get one if you haven't already. 
. They are the perfect size for relatively guilt-free meat consumption and are always tender and delicious regardless of how rare or well-done you like yours cooked. They turn a regular steak dinner into something special. 
each year and it has become one of the highlights of the holiday season for me. While others herald the arrival of mail at this time of year, bringing cards and letters from family and friends, I anxiously await the postman's delivery of a package filled with these delicious nuts. I don't know what it is about them (they're a pain in the neck to open and I don't eat them at any other time during the year), but to me the arrival of the pistachios (like the lighting of the tree at Rock Center or the first of a gazillion broadcasts of IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE) lets me know that the holidays have truly begun. 
. The blue one with the white polka dots, for example, is from Amy; the sheer, short vintage one with the letter “M” embroidered on the right breast – a gift from my stepdaughter Sal; the white-on-white striped one with the pink rickrack and the yellow, green, purple and rose circles – courtesy of my niece Jennifer. The point is not that I don’t have any; the issue with me and aprons is that I don't put one on til after the barn door is closed. When de Kooning dots of marinara dribble from my tasting spoon onto my best white blouse (the one with the trumpet sleeves, and I still don’t know how that happened because I swear I was holding that spoon right over the pot), after Rorschach blots of dark brown gravy appear on my favorite navy crepe dress, as a constellation of hot caramel from the Tarte Tatin splatters from my cast iron skillet onto my red cashmere cardigan – only then do I decide to tie on an apron. This is not good. This is not why God invented them. If only someone would call and remind me that in a battle between Minestrone and me, the Minestrone will always win – now that would be a perfect Christmas present. 
that I can use to dig a hole in my backyard and bury all the holiday cakes, candy and long interminable accounts of what the year was like for everyone in their family that are sent our way. 
! 
cookware! 