For generations of Americans, making fun of fruitcake has been a holiday tradition. Even Sabrina Carpenter cannot resist piling on. “Fruitcake just makes me sick,” the pop star intones in a song on her new Christmas album that happens to be called Fruitcake.

But a Canadian pastry chef and master food preserver would like us to reconsider our assumptions. Camilla Wynne is the author of a new cookbook called Nature’s Candy. It’s an ode to the pleasures of candying fruits — and even the occasional vegetable — and baking with them.

Wynne said she completely understands why fruitcake got stuck with such a terrible reputation.

“I think it’s because there’s a lot of terrible candied fruit out there, unfortunately,” she said. “Bright red or bright green glacé cherries, and the problem with those, of course, is that they don’t taste like anything. It’s fair that they get a bad rap, but they aren’t representative of candied fruit generally.”

Fruitcake is fantastic, says Wynne, if you use excellent fruit, especially fruit you candy yourself. Still, the idea of candying fruit at home seems daunting at best, at least to this NPR reporter (and enthusiastic amateur baker). “Oh, I hate that you’re intimidated!” Wynne said in response to the hesitancy, “That’s like the last thing I want. [But] people are. I understand that.”

Candying fruit, Wynne insisted, is not any harder than boiling eggs. The technique is, basically, briefly simmering fruit in sugar water over the course of a few days.

“I’m candying a bunch of whole figs right now,” she said. “Every day, it’s not much more than watering your plants. They need to simmer for 10 minutes, so when I’m setting up to make dinner, I’ll just turn them on and put on the timer.”

Those candied figs are put to succulent use in Wynne’s Florentine tart recipe, along with candied cherries and orange peel. Even to a fruitcake skeptic, the cake recipes in Nature’s Candy look delicious. Her Tropical Terrazzo Cake (recipe below) uses coconut milk, lime juice and an array of candied tropical fruits. The cookbook also includes plenty of non-fruitcake recipes, such as caramel corn with candied ginger, and strawberry sugar cookies with candied jalapenos.

“You get all this jalapeno syrup with it too, and it makes a really good base for margaritas if you’re into that kind of thing,” Wynne noted with relish.

Back in the lockdown days of the pandemic, she added, many home cooks turned to baking bread. Candying your own fruit is similar, she says. It brings a sense of scaling up skills and quiet contemplation to the kitchen during a moment marked by violence and institutional turmoil around the world.

“Unwind, de-stress and connect to beauty,” Wynne suggested. “The world’s a bit nuts.”

And what goes better with nuts, after all, than candied fruit?

Tropical Terrazzo Cake

By Camilla Wynne

“They paused to breathe in steam rising from the oven and took extra helpings of pound cake sliced to reveal a terrazzo pattern of candied citron and glace fruits,” writes John Birdsall in one of my favorite culinary biographies, The Man Who Ate Too Much. The idea for this sturdy pound cake studded with chunks of candied tropical fruits and glazed with tart lime syrup came from that single line in this biography of icon James Beard. The book is full of literary descriptions like this that pull you right into the action, making it a pleasure to read. Most importantly, the book doesn’t downplay his queerness. I recommend reading it while you enjoy a slice of this cake. Use a variety of candied tropical (or tropical-adjacent) fruits, keeping in mind that it can always be a mixture of homemade and store-bought. I usually use pineapple, kiwi, papaya, citron, ginger, and cactus pear.

Serves 16

For the Cake

230 g (1 cup) unsalted butter, at room temperature (very soft)
533 g (2⅔ cups) sugar
1½ tsp salt
Zest of 1 lime
6 eggs, at room temperature
420 g (3 cups) all-purpose flour
250 mL (1 cup) full-fat coconut milk
500 g (2 cups) drained and chopped (½- to 1-inch pieces) mixed candied fruit, reserving the syrup

Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C).

Generously grease and amply flour a 10- to 12-cup Bundt pan and refrigerate the pan until it’s time to fill it.

To make the cake, in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the butter, sugar, salt, and lime zest until light and fluffy. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition.

With the mixer running on low speed, add one-third of the flour and then half of the coconut milk. Alternate until all the flour and coconut milk are incorporated.

Scrape down the sides of the bowl, then beat on medium-high for 30 seconds to make sure everything is well blended. Fold in the chopped candied fruit.

Transfer the batter to the prepared pan. Give the pan a hard tap on the countertop to help settle the batter. Bake for 1 hour and 10 minutes to 1 hour and 20 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.

Cool on a wire rack for 10 minutes. Meanwhile, make the syrup.

For the Syrup

125 mL (½ cup) candied fruit

syrup (see Note)

60 mL (¼ cup) lime juice

2 Tbsp dark rum (optional)

NOTE You can use any candied fruit syrup for this recipe or use the reserved syrup from the cake method. To make the syrup, in a small pot, combine the syrup and lime juice. Bring to a boil and cook until it is reduced by half. Remove from the heat and stir in the rum, if using.

To assemble, carefully turn the cake out of the pan. Use all the syrup to brush the cake all over the top and sides. Cool completely. The cake will keep, well wrapped, at room temperature for at least 5 days.

Excerpted from Nature’s Candy by Camilla Wynne. Copyright © 2024 Camilla Wynne. Published by Appetite by Random House®, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited. Reproduced by arrangement with the Publisher. All rights reserved.

Edited for radio and the web by Meghan Sullivan, produced for radio by Chloee Weiner, produced for the web by Beth Novey

This month, we asked our audience: What words of comfort do you say to a friend whose loved one has passed away? It was part of a podcast episode and story we did on how to support a grieving friend.

We received dozens of emails on this question. Some people shared the exact messages they sent to their own good friends. Others who have experienced loss told us what not to say — and what they wished people said instead.

As many can attest, it can be tricky to offer condolences — you want to show your friend you love them, but you also know there isn’t much you can say to heal your friend’s pain. Here are some ideas about what to say to a grieving friend. These responses have been edited for length and clarity.

‘May love rest gently in your broken heart’ 

Our 29-year-old son died unexpectedly in September. There really are no words to console us. Most comments that mention healing or finding peace, however well-intentioned, feel so unrealistic and oblivious to the depth of our loss. I hope we do find peace and some degree of healing eventually, but right now I need to sit with my grief.

I’ve thought a lot more about what I say to those who are grieving. The (barely) best I’ve come up with so far is: “May love rest gently in your broken heart.” —Betsy Hooper-Rosebrook 

A simple way to break the ice 

When my husband passed away unexpectedly five years ago, it was so hard for me to go to the grocery store or the post office. Everyone asked me, “How are you doing?” I felt like I needed to respond in a way that assured the other person I was OK when I was not.

However, two friends would always say, “It’s so good to see you,” and give me a hug. That took the pressure off of me. So now, with my grieving friends, I try to say that too. —Cindy Jackelen

Tell your friend they are wonderful 

On a card, I usually say something like, “I know their life was better because you were in it.” People have commented that they loved hearing that. —Connie DeMillo

‘Sorry for your loss’ does not cut it 

Of course it is exactly what you mean and is probably sincere, but it’s stock language. Come up with an original, personal message that’s your own. Ask yourself: What would you want someone to say to you if you were in that situation? Give that person the gift of five minutes’ thought and empathy. —Beth Howard 

Send your friend a message of support on the death anniversary of their loved one. “It helps relieve the burden of grief when it is acknowledged and shared,” says reader Thomas McCabe.

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Mark death anniversaries on your calendar 

I lost my wife of 42 years to cancer ten years ago. I always dread the approach of her death anniversary. But it’s comforting to receive a text from someone who remembers that day as well.

I have a friend who lost both her husband and her only child to cancer. I’ve marked those dates in my calendar and I send a simple text that says “Sending love to you today.” It helps relieve the burden of grief when it is acknowledged and shared. —Thomas McCabe 

Bring up their laugh 

Say, “I’ll always remember their laugh.” Every time I’ve said it to a grieving person, they perked up, smiled and were truly thankful. —James Vandeputte

Don’t say nothing

Having lost my son when he was 20, don’t say nothing. Saying something doesn’t remind a grieving friend of their loss. It’s already on their mind 24/7. —David Lavallee

Sit with them quietly

When my mother passed away in 1998, it was very difficult for me. Friends called and came by and said the typical condolences. I didn’t want to hear any of it.

I was sitting alone in my living room quietly when my then 14-year-old son reached out and held my hand. He sat with me and never said anything. After a while, he got up and went back to his room.

In that moment, I found total comfort and understanding. I knew I would get through this sadness. I wondered how my son could know this was all I needed. Sometimes, just sitting with a person and saying nothing is everything. —Sharon S. Barnes

Validate their pain 

Several years ago, I had to deal with the death of two brothers and both parents over a span of about five years. I talked to a friend who had some training in grief counseling, and we worked out together some words to help me grieve and understand. It goes like this:

Your world has been shattered and is in a million pieces. It no longer makes sense. You can’t see how you can live and breathe and move in this world. But, given time, you will be able to put it back together. It won’t be the same world that you knew before, because there will always be a piece missing — forever. But you’ll be able to live and move in this new world that you’ve put together. Eventually, this world will make sense and start to work for you. You’re even allowed to go visit the place where the piece is missing and grieve.

I’ve been able to pass these words on to others who have been in severe grief, even strangers, and it seems to help. Maybe you can pass this message on to others. —Dan Corbett 

Share the silliest memories 

My mother-in-law died recently at the age of 94. Upon her death, I reminded my wife of 35 years of a humorous event that occurred when my mother-in-law was a mere 80 years old. We were walking behind her into her house and later, the same evening, I told my wife that her mom had a cute butt. When I reminded my wife of that, we both laughed and cried. —Wayne Mac 

Thank you to everyone who wrote in with your words of support and love for grieving friends. 

The digital story was edited by Meghan Keane. The visual producer is Beck Harlan.

Want more Life Kit? Subscribe to our weekly newsletter and get expert advice on topics like money, relationships, health and more. Click here to subscribe now. And follow us on Instagram: @NPRLifeKit.

My earliest memories of food are of family barbecues.

My late father grew up on a cattle ranch in Uruguay, where there are three times as many cows as people. It’s one of the world’s top consumers of beef per capita; Uruguayans eat an average of 200 pounds of meat a year. Meanwhile, my mother is from Kansas City, Mo., which is renowned for its slow-smoked barbecue.

So when I decided to switch to a plant-based diet in 2007, it was an understatement to say that my parents and I were at odds. I wasn’t just cutting out a food group from my diet, but a significant aspect of my cultural identity.

I was born in California in 1989. But when I was three, my family moved to Uruguay. I have an early memory at the butcher where my abuela placed two massive cow tongues — one in each of my hands — and asked me which one felt heavier.

The tongue was for an asado, a cultural tradition started by gauchos (Uruguayan cowboy cattle ranchers) of grilling meat on a parrilla, which is an open-air wood fire outdoor grill. These were occasions where, amid the chatter of our friends and family, my father would encourage me to try bites of mystery meat cuts.

“I grilled these for you with love,” he’d say, leaving me no choice but to try what he’d handed me. Only after I’d taken a bite would he reveal what I’d eaten. A brain, an intestine, a bull testicle.

When we moved to Kansas City about a year later, asados were replaced with sprawling KC-style cookouts. My maternal family is large, so when we go out to eat, there’s usually more than 20 of us. For as long as I can remember, we’ve been loyal to Arthur Bryant’s, a BBQ spot in downtown Kansas City. As a child, I loved eating ribs doused in sweet tangy KC BBQ sauce made with molasses, acidic vinegar and spicy chili powder alongside my cousins.

At 17, I moved to Los Angeles for college. Up until that point in my life, eating meat wasn’t something I questioned. Though I never really enjoyed chicken, turkey or lamb, I consumed red meat often. This delighted my father, who considered that trait to mean I was a good Uruguayan. But despite enjoying red meat, I had no idea how to prepare it. My father was the keeper of the grill, and he held the knowledge of how to select a cut, season and cook it.

The first time I went to the grocery store in Los Angeles, I stood in the meat aisle overwhelmed. It was the summer of 2007 and the U.S. was on the brink of an economic crisis. The slabs of flesh were expensive, and the thought of handling them disturbed me. So I decided not to buy any. That’s how I stopped eating meat. Originally, it wasn’t a decision based on morals, animal rights, environmental conservation or optimal health — I just went with my gut.

I soon found my new dietary choice was a challenge for my family to accept. Two months later, I flew home to surprise my sister for her 14th birthday. When I told my parents and sister I wasn’t eating meat, they were puzzled — my mom had made fried chicken for dinner. They weren’t open to discussing the benefits of a plant-based diet. And their lack of support made me feel misunderstood. But I also decided that it wasn’t their responsibility to cater to my dietary preferences. That night, I filled up on salad and potatoes instead.

I later learned that there were a lot of complicated factors at play in our exchange.

“In Latinx culture, food is central to family and community gatherings,” says Vanessa Palomera, a Mexican-American therapist based in Dallas, Texas. “When someone goes vegan, it can feel like a rejection of the culture or family traditions, which makes it harder for others to accept.”

Food became a pressure point in our relationship. This was especially hard to navigate as a newly independent adult, when I strived to be seen. I wavered a bit in those first few years at family gatherings — especially at Arthur Bryant’s, where I’d give in to the pressure from family and have a single BBQ rib in addition to a heaping plate of beans and fries.

It often felt like my new diet was a nuisance. I felt guilty on Thanksgiving for passing on turkey that had been lovingly prepared as a way to celebrate gratitude. Again, I resorted to side dishes to satiate me. It was hardest to resist my father, who would sometimes tell me how hard he had worked to be able to buy steak for the family. I didn’t know what else to do but have a tiny bite to appease him.

But the older I grew, the better I became about sticking to my plant-based diet. At one family gathering, I attempted to create a vegan-friendly replica of my maternal great-grandmother’s cheese ball — a sphere of cream cheese and ham. Everyone was surprised at how similar my vegan version was to the original, and it was meaningful to me that I could eat something that honored my family’s traditions.

My family members gradually began to accept my diet. At another get-together in my early 20s, I made black bean avocado brownies. One of my aunts bravely ate one with a smile. (Even though they were admittedly disgusting.) But just this small gesture made me feel valued. Years later, one of my cousins even stopped eating meat in my presence out of respect for my diet. These small gestures made a huge impact.

“It’s important for your diet to be respected because food choices reflect your values, beliefs and personal choices,” Palomera told me. “When your community honors your diet, it creates a sense of support, inclusion and acceptance.”

Two years after I gave up meat, I visited Uruguay. My family there couldn’t comprehend my diet. In their minds, eating meat is inherent to our way of life. Their concern came from a place of love. Did I still get enough protein? They asked. It was obnoxious to have my choices questioned, but they weren’t wrong about my protein intake. My vegan options there were extremely limited. I mostly ate fried potatoes and ensalada mixta (a salad of lettuce, tomato and onion). When I could find ñoquis made without egg I would order them with chimichurri sauce.

This diet became unsustainable. And my hunger drove me to take a bite of choripán here and a sándwich de miga there. It felt confusing. These were my favorite dishes as a child and I still enjoyed the taste. At the same time, indulging made me feel horrible. What was I doing this for?

I began to research the principles that drive people to veganism, and it was then that I knew I could not support factory farming’s detrimental impact on the environment. I also wanted to live a life in line with my belief that all animals have the right to live without being raised for human consumption.

Over the last 18 years of being plant-based, my reasoning for not eating any sentient being has been influenced by the Buddhist, Hindu, and Jain philosophy of ahimsa, a belief system that teaches leading a nonviolent life and respecting all living beings. Many folks, myself included, believe that means refraining from consuming animal products.

When I returned to Uruguay a decade later, Montevideo had a burgeoning vegan scene and I was finally able to enjoy plant-based versions of foods typically made with meat such as empanadas, milanesas and even a chivito — the national dish of Uruguay that usually made of mozzarella, steak, ham, bacon and egg.

To have access to my cultural heritage in plant-based form was thrilling — and delicious. And it also helped my family take part in my diet. They joined me at vegan restaurants, where they enjoyed trying our foods in meatless forms. Having culturally relevant vegan food, like vegan chorizos, made it easier to enjoy asados with my family — we could keep the ritual going without sacrificing my personal dietary choices.

I now understand how important that was for my mind, body and spirit. As Palomera says: “Food is tied to our identity, heritage and sense of belonging. It can connect us to our roots.”

Today, many of my family members make an effort to look for vegan-friendly restaurants when we go out to eat and to have plant-based food at home when I visit so I can cook. They’ve come to love the dishes I make, both vegan Uruguayan fare and others I’ve learned how to make while traveling to over 90 countries.

I no longer feel alienated from my culture. Through patience, curiosity and commitment, I’ve found that you can honor your heritage while staying true to your values — one delicious vegan chivito at a time.