Fruitcakes are just barely socially acceptable. This winter season, I would never wish a fruitcake on anyone.

Summer is too easy. Toss up some nuts and berries in a yogurt bowl. You’re set. You’re surfin’. With an iced drink, you’re a genius, even. Life is great. Then comes winter.

Winter is deceitful. Winter is work. Without any deliberate effort to keep warm, winter is joy-averse.

Toss up those same nuts and berries in some batter, bake at 300 degrees Fahrenheit and voilà: fruitcake.

A gastronomic monstrosity. A dreadful offense to one’s gustatory receptors. A barren cake for an already barren season. The darkening months just got a little darker.

The fruitcake is a simple process. By no means is it a simple pleasure.

I chose Northwestern with my whole heart, but I most definitely miss the simple pleasures — particularly those of warmth. Maybe I just spent too much time in Texas, my home of two seasons: hot and less hot.

The point is, the home is a wonderful container for heat and happiness. I look forward to that container coaxing me from a state of survival back to delicious life.

So, except for fruitcake, I’m not ungrateful for the simpler things. Cake makes for a warmer kitchen anyway. And, in theory, the fruitcake’s simplicity actually provides a wonderful analogy for living a contented life.

Most cakes are slathered in beautiful, luscious icing on the outside. But, as evidenced by the humble fruitcake, icing is not obligatory. It’s extra. It’s excessive. For cake enthusiasts and warm-blooded Homo sapiens alike, it’s what’s on the inside that counts.

You must be excruciatingly clear about what counts, and you must never confuse your ingredients with icing.

For example, the two ingredients of my cake are peace of mind and genuine connection.

Everything outside of these two things is just icing. My phone. My books. My writings. Even my cup of Colectivo coffee.

This winter — when the sun is in a rush to see the other side of the world — my cup can only hold so much happiness.

You can take them all away, and I’ll be okay. Just don’t ever touch my cake.

If I am not at peace mentally, or if my connections feel stagnant and insincere, no amount of icing will ever compensate for my cake.

In many things I write — like my theoretical fruitcake — I always try to be ambitious with my metaphors. I love making — and baking — layers of them as I go. I find thrill in getting my hands messy in a world so frigid and fragile.

It’s this kind of creation that keeps me warm and human — an enterprising creature insisting on more than just that deeply unsexy business of bare-minimum survival.

It’s a faith in life, literacy and the pursuit of fruitcake — the food for my soul.

It’s difficult to think of others when times are warm and well. But I do think of you, dear reader.

May your winter be a piece of cake.

Rawya Hazin is a Medill freshman and author of “Dear Reader, Love Rawya.” She can be contacted at [email protected]. If you would like to respond publicly to this op-ed, send a Letter to the Editor to [email protected]. The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect the views of all staff members of The Daily Northwestern.