FIC: "Tutti Frutti" (Pomona Sprout)
Have another piece of 
adventdrabbles!
Like Pomona, I am one of the (apparent) tiny minority of people who actually likes fruitcake and who welcomes any fruitcakey regifts.
Title: Tutti Frutti
Character: Pomona Sprout, with mentions of other Hogwarts staff
Rating: G
Word Count: 400 (according to AO3)
Prompt: re-gifted fruitcake
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Pomona Sprout was one of the twelve -- well, maybe fifteen -- people in the universe who actually liked fruitcake. At least, she assumed the total was astoundingly low, given the huge numbers of folks who made a public show of despising the very notion of fruitcake.
She didn't really understand the depth of the hatred. Of course fruitcakes could be made badly, but so could pumpkin pasties or treacle tart, and you never heard anyone take open pride in disliking those.
But a good fruitcake, now -- the truth was, few treats were tastier. Crunchy nuts (Pomona preferred walnuts but would not say "no" to almonds or pecans), sweet cherries, some orange zest or a bit of candied pineapple, all held lightly together with rich, clove-scented spice cake. . . .ah, that was plant matter at its best. Just thinking about it made her mouth water.
And of course there was a significant upside to people's bias: it meant that Pomona received all her friends' fruitcake regifts.
Every year, Minerva's brother gave her a cake so whisky-soaked that it probably could have served as a fire-starter, and every year, Minerva handed the package to Pomona without even unwrapping it. "A waste of good whisky," she'd say. "Happy Christmas, Pomona."
Filius's nieces always sent him little bite-sized fruitcake tarts, each with a whole walnut or cherry on top. "It's not that I don't appreciate their kindness," Filius would say as he handed the gift to Pomona. "But. . ." He'd let the rest of the sentence trail off, and in truth, he didn't need to say more, for it didn't matter what the "but" was. Whatever it meant for Filius, it meant more cake for Pomona.
Even Severus once offered her a loaf-shaped slab that he'd confiscated from a curfew-breaking couple who'd tried to combine a holiday picnic with a snog session. She never told him that the cake had been laced with magical hashish; young people needed to be able to attempt life's experiments without fear of detentions or (even worse) professorial sarcasm.
Besides, the cake had provided her with several delightful visionary experiences. And it had been filled with rum-infused hazelnuts to boot.
Yes, people's antipathy towards fruitcake was a mystery to Pomona, but, as a lifetime of working with unpredictable magical plants had taught her, mysteries did not always need to be solved. Like fruitcake -- sweet, spicy, and nutty -- they were best simply enjoyed.
adventdrabbles!
Like Pomona, I am one of the (apparent) tiny minority of people who actually likes fruitcake and who welcomes any fruitcakey regifts.
Title: Tutti Frutti
Character: Pomona Sprout, with mentions of other Hogwarts staff
Rating: G
Word Count: 400 (according to AO3)
Prompt: re-gifted fruitcake
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Pomona Sprout was one of the twelve -- well, maybe fifteen -- people in the universe who actually liked fruitcake. At least, she assumed the total was astoundingly low, given the huge numbers of folks who made a public show of despising the very notion of fruitcake.
She didn't really understand the depth of the hatred. Of course fruitcakes could be made badly, but so could pumpkin pasties or treacle tart, and you never heard anyone take open pride in disliking those.
But a good fruitcake, now -- the truth was, few treats were tastier. Crunchy nuts (Pomona preferred walnuts but would not say "no" to almonds or pecans), sweet cherries, some orange zest or a bit of candied pineapple, all held lightly together with rich, clove-scented spice cake. . . .ah, that was plant matter at its best. Just thinking about it made her mouth water.
And of course there was a significant upside to people's bias: it meant that Pomona received all her friends' fruitcake regifts.
Every year, Minerva's brother gave her a cake so whisky-soaked that it probably could have served as a fire-starter, and every year, Minerva handed the package to Pomona without even unwrapping it. "A waste of good whisky," she'd say. "Happy Christmas, Pomona."
Filius's nieces always sent him little bite-sized fruitcake tarts, each with a whole walnut or cherry on top. "It's not that I don't appreciate their kindness," Filius would say as he handed the gift to Pomona. "But. . ." He'd let the rest of the sentence trail off, and in truth, he didn't need to say more, for it didn't matter what the "but" was. Whatever it meant for Filius, it meant more cake for Pomona.
Even Severus once offered her a loaf-shaped slab that he'd confiscated from a curfew-breaking couple who'd tried to combine a holiday picnic with a snog session. She never told him that the cake had been laced with magical hashish; young people needed to be able to attempt life's experiments without fear of detentions or (even worse) professorial sarcasm.
Besides, the cake had provided her with several delightful visionary experiences. And it had been filled with rum-infused hazelnuts to boot.
Yes, people's antipathy towards fruitcake was a mystery to Pomona, but, as a lifetime of working with unpredictable magical plants had taught her, mysteries did not always need to be solved. Like fruitcake -- sweet, spicy, and nutty -- they were best simply enjoyed.