Wednesday Whimsy #32
A Cause for Mrs. Claus
NOTE: Reading on mobile? A text-friendly version follows the image.
Text-only Version:
A Cause for Mrs. Claus
A conversation between the Muse and Mrs. Claus
The Muse arrived on Christmas Eve expecting obligation. What she found was tea. Mrs. Claus had already poured it.
“You’re late,” Mrs. Claus said pleasantly, setting a cup across from her. “But not unusually so.”
The Muse bristled. She disliked being anticipated.
“I came to talk,” the Muse said. “Woman to woman.”
Mrs. Claus smiled. Not indulgently. Precisely. “So did I.”
This was not how revolutions begin.
The kitchen hummed with quiet competence. Dough rose where it was meant to. Lists lay folded, not frantic. The clock ticked without accusation.
“How do you stand it?” the Muse asked, gesturing vaguely toward the workshop, the sleigh, the man whose name became legend while hers became décor.
Mrs. Claus stirred her tea. “Stand what?”
“Being adjacent,” the Muse said sharply. “Being supportive. Being—” she searched for the correct insult “—content.”
Mrs. Claus looked at her then. Really looked.
“Oh,” she said. “You misunderstand.”
The Muse leaned forward. This was more interesting.
“I built the systems you mistake for tradition,” Mrs. Claus continued. “I set the cadence. I decided which chaos was useful and which was indulgent. I taught him when to listen. I taught them all when to stop.”
The Muse frowned. “You stayed.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Claus said. “On purpose.”
That landed harder than rebellion ever does.
“I didn’t want a bonfire,” Mrs. Claus went on.
“I wanted longevity.”
The Muse scoffed reflexively, then paused. Longevity was not her strong suit.
“So you never wanted more?” the Muse asked.
Mrs. Claus laughed softly. “I wanted different. There’s a distinction.”
Outside, bells rang. A door opened. Someone called her name, already halfway through a sentence.
Mrs. Claus did not rise immediately.
“I know you,” she said gently. “You arrive, disorder things, demand devotion, and leave when the floor needs sweeping.”
The Muse straightened. “I inspire.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Claus said. “And I sustain.”
They regarded one another across the table—chaos and continuity, spark and scaffolding.
“At least admit it,” the Muse said. “You started something.”
Mrs. Claus stood now, tying her apron with unhurried grace.
“I started a world that could survive genius,” she said. “Even his.”
The Muse watched her go, uncharacteristically silent.
For the first time that night, she did not feel singular.
And that, she decided—with some irritation—was the most disruptive thing of all.
Secret Recipe: Mrs. Claus’ Fudge
Note: the Muse swears she got the recipe from Santa
Ingredients (classic 5-lb batch style):
4 cups sugar
1 can (14–14.5 oz) evaporated milk
1 cup margarine or butter
2 packages (6 oz each) semisweet chocolate chips/bits
1 pint marshmallow creme
1 cup chopped nuts (optional)
1 tsp vanilla
Method (paraphrased):
In a heavy pot, cook sugar + evaporated milk + butter/margarine, stirring often, until it reaches a steady boil and cooks to a soft-ball/soft-boil stage.
Take off heat; stir in chocolate until melted and smooth.
Mix in marshmallow creme, vanilla, and nuts. Beat until glossy and well blended.
Pour into a buttered oblong pan; cool completely; cut into squares.
Editor’s Note: This recipe was given to me decades ago by my mother-in-law. She found it in a woman’s magazine sometime in the sixties. I have been making this fudge every year since ... about forty years now. From our house to yours ...
Have a holly jolly forever!
