Sin on a plate
The fifth fruitcake of the season is an irish whiskey cake (from the Moosewood book of Desserts, of course), which redefines “feast of cardiovascular doom” and makes the previous four fruitcakes look like diet food. If the three cups of dried fruit and ~1 cup of bourbon (the last irish whiskey I had in the house was a single-malt, and that vanished down my gullet several years ago) isn’t enough to haul up the vessel in distress flags, the six eggs, cup and a half of butter, and two and a half of sugar should be enough to get the rescue helicopters into the air.
I wonder if it will survive the weekend?