A Short Story by Sherry Roberts
From a young age, I have been disappointed in candy canes.
That may not be an issue for some people, but what about when it’s your job to make candy canes and you are actually named for them? It makes me, Candiella the elf, wonder: What is the purpose of candy canes, and do we really need them?
I posed the question to Frostina, the chief confectioner. Her answer: “According to candy cane historians, this Yuletide yummy came into being in 1670 when a German choirmaster distributed candy sticks to fidgety children. He bent the sticks to resemble a shepherd’s crook to calm outraged parishioners who insisted church was no place for sweets.”
I stopped and stared at the candy canes rolling by on the assembly line. “Do you mean we are doing all this to keep children from wiggling?” I asked.
Frostina straightened the bib of her starched apron with pride and noted, “U.S. confectioners produce 1.76 billion candy canes each year. That doesn’t count the millions we make, of course, here at the North Pole.”
“That’s a lot of wigglers,” I said.
By the end of the day, I was tired and sticky. I trudged home to watch a video, but holiday movies are a wasteland of candy canes. Have you noticed? That guy in Elf says elves consider candy canes one of the four food groups. Right. And people are feeding candy canes to reindeer. Reindeer hate candy canes. I know that for a fact.
That night, as usual, I had candy cane nightmares. They were stuck in my pink hair and curling around my legs and arms. I screamed and thrashed, but these ribbons of sugar were made of steel. They held me tight until morn, leaving me exhausted and grouchy.
Being an elf on the edge is not a good thing. The North Pole runs on joy, goodness, and camaraderie. When I entered the candy cane room, the other elves took one look at the storm brewing in me and gave me space.
When Frostina clapped her hands and shouted, “We’ve got a quota today, folks. Let’s get making those candy canes,” I lost it.
I grabbed a mallet and began smashing candy canes. Red and white splinters of candy flew everywhere. The other elves hid under the machinery. Frostina screamed, “Stop!.” But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
When I finally wore myself out, I dropped the mallet and hung my head.
Silence.
Everyone watched Frostina approach with a tray. “Look what you’ve done, Candiella,” she said sadly.
Ashamed, I mumbled, “What is it?”
“It was my new holiday candy,” said Frostina. “I call it bark, because it’s layered like a tree. A layer of dark chocolate covered with a layer of white chocolate. But now it’s ruined. You’ve garnished it with crushed candy canes.”
Wishing there was some way to fix this, I broke off an edge and took a bite. “Maybe we can salvage some . . .” I said, then stopped in shock.
Handing her a piece, I said, “Try it. It’s good.” The other elves crowded around us and watched nervously as Frostina sampled the ruined bark.
When she laughed and glowed as only she can at the taste of a proper candy, the others reached for pieces of bark.
“You’ve discovered just the missing ingredient, Candiella,” she said. “It’s not just bark. It’s peppermint bark.”
And that is how I became the head elf in charge of the peppermint bark machine and found a new appreciation and use for candy canes—and my trusty mallet.
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