I knew I was The Biggest Loser when I didn’t get notified that I was a semi-finalist for the CBC Canada Writes contest.  Then I read the B.C. finalists’ submissions and biographies and laughed at myself.  Two out of three were writers, so that made me feel better.  I adored reading their bio’s and imagined mine: “Moni Schiller is a middle aged woman who makes fruitcake in the basement of her home.  She writes a weekly blog which she purports to be funny.”

Sigh.  However, I did have some wonderful news, and that is that I’m very close to getting into the sainted city of Calgary!  Someone with a lot more down-to-earth business skills than I have actually did some research into this.  She said that Alberta is a gold mine for fruitcake mongers, so we will see.

It makes me chuckle to think of the way I researched the viability of a gourmet fruitcake business.  I made some fruitcake, gave it to people, and when they screamed and wept a bit when it was gone, I decided it would probably sell.

I’ve had my nose to the grindstone since August, and have literally not had a moment to indulge in my most serious passion, shopping.  However, the other day I had an hour to kill between appointments, and found myself right at Winner’s.  As I needed to buy a Christmas gift for a girl who will be visiting, I decided this would be the perfect time.  Nasty old Winner’s, though, puts the women’s clothes in front, so one must walk through them to the girls’ section.

I now have 19 pairs of dress pants and 5 pairs of casual pants.  I didn’t need the gray dress pants I just bought, however, gray is HUGE this season, and God knows, one wants to at least try to remain au courant, even caked in dough.  At the end of a day of baking my pores as well as my clothes exude fruitcake.  I miscalculated the rum the other day and had to race to the licquor store right at the end of a baking day.  The people all around me said, “It smells like food!”

But seriously, back to the CBC writing contest.  Who in their right mind wouldn’t find O! Dear Fruitcake set to the tune of O! Canada funny?  What about the ingenious movie review I made up about a trio of super-hero dachshunds who defend the Okanagan from developers?  Honestly, I was chuckling for days over my brilliance, only to have it dashed to bits by some judges.

Not that any of that counts for a hill of beans here at our dear home.  Nicky was in a flap this morning because his winter coat ‘is lost’ (IE he didn’t lose it), and Luke can’t find his important apprenticeship log book, so today I’m to help search the house for it.  It seems that a great portion of my time is spent helping others search for their things, but I guess that’s good as it’s an opportunity for bonding.

Everyone’s idea of humour is different, of course, so now I’m wondering if my submissions to CBC Radio’s contest will be viewed as juvenile rather than funny.  It reminds me of my dad, who in response to something that was supposedly witty would reply deadpan, “Tickle me.” I’m on tenterhooks until Friday when they’re posting the short-listed people.

Nicky’s been trying to soften me up on the idea that he may not work in January as he’s going to be taking six whole courses, and therefore may be too busy.  I tried to point out that his job is actually very easy, and well-paid, and hence it doesn’t hurt him to try to do just a few hours a week.  When that failed, I said, “Look.  Work or don’t won’t, but I’m not giving you a cent.” To which he balefully replied, “You are SO mean!”

Luke’s been living in a hell hole in Rutland for the past month, and it’s been quite nice.  Particularly enjoyable are the times when he comes home, and says incredulously, “Jeff and his girlfriend don’t even rinse their plates so the food is all stuck on and they’re really hard to clean!”  He said that he and his friend Felix are the only ones who clean the house.  I just chuckle merrily to myself.  It’s true, life does get more enjoyable the older you get.

The garden is giving its final hurrah.  The dahlias are still blooming bravely, even though the nights are getting very cold.  Soon I’ll look out and they’ll all be black and melted from the frost.  Now, though, when I look south out of the kitchen window I’m bathed in a golden glow of yellow and orange maples in the neighbours’ yards below.  I admire the orange-red pyrancantha berries around the deck; and on the deck itself containers still bursting with red zinnias and petunias, and huge orange marigolds.

Nokia, the phone company, inquired if I make tiny, individual fruitcakes.  Sadly, they would have wanted 1000!  However, to save myself from certain mental illness, I e mailed them that I only make the one-pound size.  I added that the one-pound size is actually perfect for a couple to share with a bottle of Merlot.  No reply.

I’ve started receiving orders from individuals who have ordered in the past, and have received a few new orders on PayPal, which is wonderful as it means people are finding my site.  I got the nicest e mail from a woman in Calgary today who said in part, “Your cake was one of the reasons we went back to the Okanagan.”

So even though on many days I wonder if I’ll have a few thousand fruitcakes to store for next year, I have to think positive.  I got a great e mail from the editor of Okanagan Life Magazine saying that the cakes I left were wonderful, so hopefully that article will bring lots of sales.

I may have overdone the manifesting of my destiny stuff, a la the book that changed my life called Excuse Me, Your Life is Waiting.  I’ve been practicing the Law of Attraction, and by God, if two separate magazine editors didn’t phone me and offer me an article! Free! Complete with photos!

I’ll be featured in Okanagan Life Magazine, and the other is far away, in Florida.  The editor phoned and said she’d seen lots of fruitcake sites, but liked mine the best.  When I told Denis, he acted surprised, which annoyed me terribly, and so I asked him which part he was surprised about.  He said it was the fact that there are lots of fruitcake sites!  The nerve of that man.

I’ve also gotten out to do a bit of marketing, and am happy to say that orders are now picking up.  In fact, I’m a bit nervous, as I’ve entered a contest on CBC Radio called Canada Writes.  So far, I’ve submitted in four of the five categories, so am hoping that at least one submission will be good enough to be chosen as a semi-finalist.  If it is, what if thousands upon thousands of people check out my site?

I must say writing for the contest has been more fun than anything I’ve done in a long time.  I guess that’s because the genre is right up my alley.  The categories are: blogs (hello!), humour, songs, advertisements and movie pitches.  I’m very much hoping my rendition of O Fruitcake (sung to the tune of O Canada) will make it.

Just now a nice woman phoned in response to my ad in EAT Magazine.  A cider-making place on the Island e mailed me, and a store manager in Westbank ordered two cases of each product.  Of course some places with no vision have said no, but c’est la vie.

I spent the Thanksgiving weekend experimenting with pumpkin.  I ended up with pumpkin bread, pumpkin tarts and pumpkin pie.  Denis overdid the tarts with whipped cream, and so had an unpleasant night as a result.  He and the dogs are quite similar in that they will eat until the food is gone, no matter how sick they’re feeling while they’re doing it.

I also spend several hours re-organizing the storage room in the basement, as I now appear to have 50 cases of fruitcake ready to be packaged.  Just as I typed that number I felt my stomach do that weird flip flop thing stomachs do when they’re telling you that you’re insane.  I’m sure hoping there’s a way to get everything done, but right now I’m not really sure how.

Not to worry, though, as I have quite a large platter of leftover turkey that I’m going to fashion into delicious sandwiches.  Wolfing these will help me find a way to think.

I did my first fruitcake demo of the season on Friday, and after two hours of standing was reminded of why I’m not absolutely wild about these events.  It was in a new gift store called Shop the Valley, inside the lovely setting of Summerhill Winery.  All of the store’s inventory is made in the Okanagan, from art to food.  It was their grand opening as well as the first day of Wine Festival, so very busy.

A nice young woman came in, and the owner asked if she was enjoying the wine-related festivities.  She pointed to her stomach, and said that she was expecting.  One of us asked, “Is it your first?” to which she replied, “No, it’s my seventh.”

Of course the three of us (all moms) working in the store acted thrilled.  As soon as she left, we did the circled index finger around the ear motion, ie, that woman is crazy!! She made the usual delusional statement that after three it just gets to be so easy as the older ones help out.  I felt woozy just thinking about it.

I was happy to have snagged another customer, and once again, it happened as a result of them tasting the product.  I phoned the Kootenay Co-Op in Nelson and asked if I could send a sample, to which they innocently said, “Why not?”  Like a spider building its web, I chuckled merrily to myself as I packaged the two fruitcakes and mailed them off.  I knew what would happen.

I’m currently awaiting a response from the Executive Chef at the Capilano Golf Club in chi chi West Vancouver.  If he thinks the product passes muster, it is added to their roster of gift selections for members to purchase at Christmas.  How very exclusive, non?  We schlubs get to comb The Bay for something for a loved one, but they get to browse giant olives, gourmet crackers and decadent fruitcake (we hope).

I’ll do one dreaded Christmas craft/food event, and that’s the huge trade show held at Prospera Place here in Kelowna.  I feel sick thinking about it, but it’s a great way to get lifelong customers.  I had attended one in Penticton a couple of years ago, but not last year, so received a panicked phone call from a woman who had gone specifically to find me, and I wasn’t there.  I delivered two fruitcakes right to her door, and she was extremely relieved.

There’s a brand new high-end grocery store in Kelowna called Choices which just opened.  I must put on my Jones New York suit and get over there with a sample.  It always throws them a bit, I must say.  However, as I’ve always said, my initials aren’t the same as Martha Stewart’s for nothing.

In the meantime I have four dogs to take care of, as mom and Gerry have left for three weeks of fun in Germany, so Schwartzie is here with us again.  As mom sadly cradled the dog one last time before leaving, with a tear in her eye, I also had one in mine.  I imagined the amount of pee that the dog is going to leave on my area carpets and felt wistful for a day at a trade show just to get away from it all.

Has your own stupidity ever paralyzed you?  That’s how I’m feeling right at this moment, totally paralyzed.  I opened an envelope and out fell a bill for just over $600 for an ad!  I stupidly had read the terms of the contract wrong, and had purchased what I thought was one year’s worth of ads, and it turns out it’s per issue!  Excuse me while I got outside and scream for a minute.

Besides screaming, I find singing helps most things go along more smoothly.  I have actually composed a booklet of songs, just for the dogs.  Most of them are actually just for Arnie, such as Phantom of the Okanagan (sung to the tune of Phantom of the Opera).

“Look on the bed, and there you’ll find

The dachshund of the Okanagan’s there

He’s in your mind.”

By the way, if you’ve never seen the Andrew Lloyd Webber production of Phantom of the Opera, you’re missing something.  I bought tickets for the four of us when the kids were about nine and twelve, and we were all completely blown away by the experience.  When the chandelier swings over your head and crashes into the stage, you know you’re in for the ride of your life.

My brother-in-law Martin commented that he didn’t really like musicals, as he said most people on his street don’t burst into song spontaneously.  Denis dryly muttered, “Try livin’ at my house.”  He’s very used to having the theme from Green Acres sung to him at the drop of a hat.  I particularly enjoy purring Eva Gabor’s words, “I just adore a penthouse view.  Dahling, I love you, but give me Park Avenue.”

I had a crazily busy week with the fruitcake business, and it’s just going to get much worse.  I had a lovely comment, “nice read” on one of my blogs from a stranger who stumbled onto my site by accident.  I felt happy about that.  I also got orders from Comox and Victoria, so feel my fame is starting to spread.

Not that fame can go to a person’s head if one has to deal with this.  I got up and there was Nicky’s pile of laundry, with a note printed in capital letters on top saying, “DO NOT OVERDRY THESE CLOTHES.”  He’s quite a vain little individual, and thinks he knows a thing or two about the care and maintenance of clothing.  Though he realizes he doesn’t know how to do it himself, he nonetheless thinks he knows enough to give proper instructions to the maid.

As I load the washing machine, I burst into a happy rendition of the theme song from Gilligan’s Island.  Like screaming, singing truly is a wonderful form of therapy. 

For seven long years I spent every summer toiling in my mom’s fruit stand.  It was called Schiller’s Fruit Stand, and was right beside the Super Valu in downtown Osoyoos.  I started at age 13, and mercifully when I was 19 mom decided it was her last year after 20 long summers.  However, during those seven years when I was there, I worked ten hours a day, six days a week.  When I mentioned this factoid to my children, Nicky replied drily, “Good for you.”

This was explained to me as actually being very leisurely, as during the summer, my mom worked seven days a week, sixteen hours a day.  My grandma was in her seventies, and was cooking several dozen jars of jam in an un-air conditioned house every day.  These were trucked to the fruit stand and sold.  My grandpa, in his eighties, helped prepare the fruit, and my dad worked out in the orchard.

It was therefore unheard of that one would complain about their cushy 60-hour a week job.  Plus, there were some happy moments in there.  For one, the Sun Rype delivery guy was always a hunk, so once a week I was able to flirt outrageously.  Then, there were the lunches of Kentucky Fried Chicken, and afternoons of ripe cantaloupes filled with soft ice cream.  Did I mention I was a bit of a butterball even then?

Because mom thought peach fuzz detracted from the appeal of the fruit, all peaches had to be wiped of fuzz prior to being artistically placed into a basket.  The cherries were arranged into a kind of a dome, all stems pointing down, and thus invisible.  The jars of jam were all polished and placed on dusted shelves.

And then there were the riotous phone calls to Mrs. Toke.  The Tokes grew tomatoes, and as the summer wore on, the tourists’ appetite for local tomatoes would grow to a fever pitch.  They would shop at the Super Valu, then walk by our fruit stand on their way back to one of the motels lining the lake.  Of course, they would stop in for some local fruit and the prized tomatoes.

Every few days, a panicked phone call would go out to Mrs. Toke for more tomatoes.  Often they would also be low, and Mrs. Toke would say they really didn’t have any.  It was the phoner’s job to convince Mrs. Toke that somehow tomatoes must be deliverd, and she in her nasal voice would whine, “We can only try.”

And thus is has become the battle cry for people such as my pal Alison and me.  When the chips are down, we will say, “We can only try.”  And as I now feel the weight of the fruitcake season pressing down on me, I try to meditate on this mantra.  When I think about the phone calls I still have to make, the samples I have to deliver, and then the unending task of packaging before me, I just thank God for Mrs. Toke.

When I hear programs about de-cluttering our lives I chuckle as I realize I would have to commit murder in order to be successful.  For example, I was just phoned by Nicky and told that he’s locked the keys in the car.  I’m now on standby, as if he can’t break in with a coat hanger he’s informed me I’ll have to drive to the campus with the spare keys.

Luke thought he’d lost his passport, so this engendered a week of searching (on my part).  Then, last night some nut in a stolen car careened into our rental house, so Denis says, “Phone the contractor.”  Not, “I’ll phone the contractor.”  If there are calls to be made or forms to fill out, I must do them.  What’s funny about it all is how much I fear and loathe this responsibility.  But, as the TV character Maude used to say to her husband, Arthur, “God’ll get you for that.”

As it’s fall, the catch phrase at the women-only gym is ‘setting fitness goals.’  I’d hate to tell them that mine are as simple as having the inner strength to continue going three or four times a week.  However, when you see how large they’re making wine glasses these days, I often say, “Thank God for my biceps.”

I had some marvelous news from Buy-Low Foods.  They’re going to carry my product!  They have a total of 16 stores, 14 in BC and two in Alberta.  The person with whom I spoke said he would let me know the numbers this week.  Of course I am ga ga with excitement about it, and lie on the bed, allowing numbers to roll around in my head.

But then I’m brought out of my fanciful reverie by someone’s cry of “Can you do my laundry?”  Nicky is particularly persnickety about grease stains on his polo shirts, so points them out so that I’ll be sure to apply stain remover prior to washing.  Once again, he doesn’t apply the stain remover, but directs me to do it.

It’s amazing how many things I have to do, whether I hate them or not.  Take my ad on google, for example.  It nearly killed me to go through the steps of writing the ad, then choosing the keywords.  However, I did it, and felt fantastic when I saw it posted.  If you google ‘fruitcake’, you’ll likely see it.

I have great hopes for this ad, as I would eventually like my business to be solely mail order.  As much as I adore begging store managers to buy my product, and as much as I love serving hundreds of dollars worth of samples to recalcitrant customers, I think it would be much easier to simply receive orders via my site.

I had better watch the time, as I must drive Arnie to and from the vet’s every two hours.  He’s having his blood sugar levels monitored due to his diabetes.  It’s funny how one becomes inured to tedious tasks.

Other than a couple of hot weeks in July, it hasn’t been much of a summer in the Okanagan.  This weekend was okay, around 27 degrees, so shorts and t shirts were fine, but it wasn’t as hot as it’s been in years past.  I remember August 31, 1997, when Prince Di was killed, as a very hot night.  We were watching a video, after having heard on the six o’clock news that the princess had been in an accident.  We thought it was minor, so after popping the movie out at 9:00 PM we were shocked to hear that she had died.

Today is Labour Day, and it’s a bit overcast.  I guess it’s probably better for the poor kids heading back to school.  I always felt sick inside on Labour Day, and would spend the day moping about, feeling gloomy.  It always marked the end of the two months of complete freedom I experienced at my grandparents’ house.  I could stay up as late as I liked, sleep in until noon, spread my Barbie, her house and clothing from one end of the house to the other, and order strange foods.

One of these foods was both peanut butter and strawberry jam in the same jar.  Do you remember that?  They would also buy chips, Pop Tarts, sugar-sweetened cereals and cookies.  None of this stuff ever appeared in our house.  As well, it could be eaten all evening long in the living room, in front of the T.V.

Yesterday I came home after a night in Osoyoos, and marveled at the beauty of the apples on the trees along the highway.  They were twice the size of tennis balls and very red.  Someday, when it’s all paved over and we’re buying apples from China, we’ll think back on the beauty of what was, and wonder what happened.

When I arrived home I decided that I’d better start to package some of the baked fruitcakes and make room on the shelves for more.  I made two cases of 24 each, and put them on the closet floor in the basement kitchen.  I sighed, and said to myself, “only 148 more cases to go.”  Should I just shoot myself now?

Have you ever tried to get blood out of a dachshund?  It’s very hard, in case you’re wondering.  The vet told me that Arnie would have to spend a day there so that they can draw blood every two hours and monitor his sugar levels (he has diabetes).  I told the vet that Arnie hates him and his clinic, and therefore I would have to drive Arnie back and forth every two hours.  The vet then suggested that I could it myself with a blood sugar monitor.  I thought this was a very cost-effective idea, so decided to try it.

Tomorrow I will be phoning the vet to book a day of blood sugar testing in his clinic.  I didn’t get one drop of blood out of the dog, but instead caused a terrible ruckus.  I have a strange feeling that the vet often suggests these types of things to owners, knowing that in the words of Arnold Schwarzenegger, “I’ll be back.”

It’s quite hard to imagine that one can actually forget how to make something they’ve made a thousand times, isn’t it?  However, on Saturday, I had one of those lapses.  I didn’t have time to prepare the fruit for Okanagan Harvest Cake, so decided that Marilyn and I should bake Totally Decadent Fruitcake instead.  I hadn’t made it since last November.

For some unknown reason, on the recipe, I had written baking soda.  However, it calls for baking powder!  Marilyn had no reason to question it, and merrily followed the new recipe.  We had two batches in the ovens, and one in the gigantic mixer.  I looked into the oven, and Mein Gott im Himmel, if there’s wasn’t dough burbling out of the pans, with handfuls of dough plopped over the oven floor!

It took me a moment, and then I realized what had happened.  We had to throw out three batches, but then all went beautifully after that.  At the end of the second arduous day of baking, I wearily came upstairs, and joy of joys, found my new leather Dockers chewed to bits by that little menace, Ricky!  ARGH!

I feel silly even writing this, but Luke has once again said he’s moving out.  He’s going to move in with a hoard of people, one of whom I know.  It sounds like a hell-hole of a house, but what do I care when you really get right down to it.  I’m quite sure that he’ll stop by here each day on his way to work to get his lunch.

The other day Nicky said that he wanted to get some new clothes for school.  I looked at him, and said, “Well, have at it.”  He wailed, “I’m not gonna waste all of my money on clothes!”  For some reason, I must present the image of a person who wants to waste her money on a kid’s wardrobe.  He said, “Let’s go to Tommy Hilfiger” to which I said, “Tommy Hilfiger?  I’ll give you $100 towards it and that’s it.”

He grudgingly had to accept that, and then suggested we go on the weekend.  I explained that I was baking, to which he said, “Well you don’t sound very enthusiastic about it.”  Very astute on his part, as I was openly balking.

Sadly, I don’t think much will change as we go into fall.  On Saturday when I was running up and down the stairs between baking batches of fruitcakes, I alternately saw Denis reading the paper or watching TV.  Nicky knocks off after a few hours of work, and as Luke works three long shifts, he has four days off.  I am surrounded by sleeping dogs and cats.  Everyone else’s life looks so leisurely.

No time for self-pity, however, as I rehearse the gloating I’m going to do when I’m the Fruitcake Queen.  I’ll pretend to feel terrible leaving the family behind as I board a plane to a balmy clime in mid-winter.

What a humungous Ten Days of Food it’s been!  It started last Monday with Alison here for dinner, at which time I made wild sockeye salmon and a cherry fool for dessert.  We then went to Osoyoos, where a guest of mom’s cooked a fab dinner on Tuesday night.  She made chicken piccata, linguine tossed with butter and olive oil, and roasted vegetables.  I vaguely remember a plum crisp for dessert, but there was a lot of wine, so that part is hazy.

Then on Wednesday I made the infamous seafood casserole, which contains shrimp, scallops, cod and salmon and topped with a pound of butter.  This was accompanied by rice and a tomato salad.  A friend of mom’s who’s a gourmet cook brought crepes for dessert.  She had filled them with cream cheese and hazelnuts, and topped them with peaches flambeed with Cointreau.

By Thursday I was dizzy with the sudden extra poundage around my girth, and had to drive home for Nicky’s birthday.  I arrived to tell the family that I was much too busy to cook, so we ordered three large pizzas.  As usual, there were at least four extra kids in the basement.  I had to re-pack as the next day we were off to Sechelt for a family wedding.

We left on Friday morning, and had a lovely pre-rehearsal dinner at an Indian restaurant in Sechelt.  On Saturday we had the most fabulous food at a great place called Spence’s.  Denis had the pistachio crusted French brie, which he said was very nice.  I had lamb skewers accompanied by fries (it said yam fries on the menu, but wouldn’t you know it, some kid got the last order).  Our young nephews-in-law were pouring back mixed drinks like there was no tomorrow.  Ah youth!

Speaking of strange places in which to reside, I always find it curious that one would want to be dependent on something like a ferry for getting to and from home.  Fortunately, we had reservations coming and going, so it was a smooth trip.  I’ve been stranded on that hot tarmac too many times to find the ferries any fun at all.

For the past two days our friends Mark and Gitte were here from Vancouver with two of their three girls.  For dinner I made a Tuscan chicken dish, accompanied by the ubiquitous roasted vegetables (all local) as well as rice and corn on the cob.  It’s always so sad when the last of the local produce is gone for another year.  We’re then forced to choke down Chilean vegetables and pretend the third eye sprouting on our foreheads has nothing to do with unregulated pesticide use.

Now that the eating spree is over, it’s time to settle down for some serious work.  I’m behind in marketing, baking, packaging and just about everything else you can think of for a seasonal fruitcake business.  I hate myself for it, but have still not found a cure for procrastination.  As with essays due in university, I seem to work best while weeping and praying, promising I will never, ever leave it this late again.