The blizzard had claimed the day since the dawn of December 12th. And rightly so. No one had seen it coming or felt it—the spectacular drift of the Kitchen Nightmare—except for the lost climate conspirators and a few of the benevolent Zeste du monde employees: golden chefs, unparalleled in their craft. All were standing, making, doubling, and remaking new canapé creations for the trend-savvy and the lively hostesses. The situation was clear: more guests, more attendees… and more people for the celebration. Mrs. Claus had planned it perfectly. Indeed, it was Santa who had lost his frozen footing…
Santa had graciously conceded victory to Mrs. Claus in the Christmas gender battle the previous week, and had subtly assumed the role of second fiddle among the elf-violinists. For appearances, he said. The battle station of preparations had been posted to him as the first grand task. He reviewed for Mrs. Claus all the stakes created by his own deeds, and the newcomers—the worst of his new tasks—including those recently arrived and exiled from this world, seeking contributions to the most beautiful celebration in the past two millennia. All were, as you may have guessed, friends…
The most spectacular happening of this white-and-green December was marked by the sheer number of canapés amassed for this happy deity. Endless! A rolling fire on a conveyor belt; and particularly all strung together along the path of freezers blowing through the circuit. Thousands of miniature bites formed his famous full-mouth creations, creating a true food highway, endlessly replenished by the green-and-yellow little ones stricken with neurasthenia. Millions for all! The desire for the “fed-to-world-hunger.” They—all—had begun to lose track of the elves, as the line of bites stretched for miles between the mountain’s peak and the heart of the factory—they would eat for eternity. It was between the start of the celebrity parade and the interior of the canapé factory. Santa extended himself in kilometers of added elves, forming an endless sleigh from the North Pole to its southern slope.
The neo-wool socks, turning red in the cheeks, seemed to anger the Zest of Cold far more than necessary. And one had to understand that: so many tartines, sandwiches, dine-here and dine-there would create “doers who do” at every good field, at a distance. All this new food would thus be abundant, filling mountains and sleigh-drawers of canapés, mini-portions, sandwiches, and cafeteria lunches proudly carrying all the transport. One person’s happiness created another’s, it was said, and everyone had to eat to the fullness of their appetite.
Women and men, Canadians and Québécois. Let no one feel that the white carpet might be removed from beneath any elf, regional and provincial by the weight of their delay. Without the crunchy sound of snow disappearing. Now and above all, even before the arrival of summer.
Every participant in this lovely display—a sort of “Night of the Long Knives” too finely sharpened… without weapons—knew well that the victor of this loyal snowy affair would be equal: Mrs. Claus and the World of Christmas—and that nourishing from the top of the palm would be lawful. No matter what the damned actors in the last row of this all-white Christmas charade might say. Truly white-white, like mischievous revelers in celebration.
But the Story had not yet reached this moment of festivities. As Tex Lecor said, it was not even twenty to midnight. From above, the scene was still breathtaking; the die was indeed cast. One final week remained before the shout of “all aboard.” Many were truly frustrated by the conclusion of the work. There remained, at most, a few more days of fine-tuning.
