Easter Eggs for the Czar

It is true, of course, you will not have heard of me.  No, you will have heard of that fop who made jeweled eggs, everyone has.  But mine was the true art, created from dark chocolate and spun sugar, butter creams and rare liqueurs, exotic fruits and nuts.  I was the Imperial Easter Egg Maker in the Court of Nicholas and Alexandra, and my art was even greater for its evanescence. A Possipov confection was like a Nijinsky entrachet dix--impossible to capture, but once experienced, never forgotten.

I was working in my father's humble candy shop in the village of Kobal, stirring a kettle of caramel, when the Czar's messengers came for me.  I had no time to pack or change; off I went in their coach still in my apron, taking only my wire whisk and a sausage for the journey.  My family waved farewell, proud tears in their eyes.  "Remember the hard ball in the water trick," my father cried to me as the horses clattered over the cobblestones.

When we reached the palace, it was ten days before Easter.  "The Czarina has heard great things of you," said General Malinsky, Commander of the Royal Kitchen.  "She wants you to create Easter eggs for the prince and princesses.  You make, we hide.  We have a secret police for such things.  Now, is there anything you require?  Is the larder satisfactory?"

My poor peasant eyes grew wide.  Satisfactory?  Never had I seen such treasures:  peach halves in Cognac, figs the size of gourds, sacks of cashews from India, barrels of South Pacific coconuts, apricots glazed with lavender honey, coffee beans from Costa Rica, gigantic slabs of Belgian chocolate, peppermint plants from the Czar's own greenhouse.

I worked without ceasing, without sleeping, until dawn of Easter Sunday.  I made chocolate eggs in the shapes of mosques, bears and ballerinas.  I sculpted Cossack riders in butterscotch, I reproduced the Crown jewels in candied tropical fruits, I wrote Pushkin's poetry on chocolate with peppermint fondant.  Finally I fell exhausted in a corner of the kitchen.  But before I lost consciousness, my heart sang at General Malinsky's words of praise:  "Not bad, Possipov."

And so my career began, and gloriously it continued, for many joyous Easters.  (I did, of course, create confections for other seasons--like the life-size chocolate St. Nicholas that stood in St. Petersburg at Christmas.  Children of the nobility were allowed to come and nibble on it.)  But Easter was the great time of year. 

Then, the changes began.  First, that grotesque pig Rasputin arrived, and began to demand X-rated eggs.  Whole corps de ballet he wanted, jumping out of eggs (and their tutus) at officers' dinners.  Then, worse, came the Revolution.  Lenin never ate chocolate.  He had adored it as a young man, but now he forbade himself its taste, as a test of endurance.  The toll such restraint exacted was the falling out of his hair.  As for Stalin, he ate nothing but yak jerky, and had the vilest breath in all the Caucasus.

Soon, I realized my life was in danger.  I began to plan my escape.  And my escape was the high point of my art.  I constructed an enormous chocolate egg--hollow, but with a shell six inches thick.  I carefully drilled miniscule holes in the shell, crawled inside, and sealed the egg from within.  What a yolk on the Bolsheviks!

And that is how I came to leave Russia.  I had prepared a packing crate for the egg, and arranged to have it shipped to an overseas address.

The giant egg and I were delivered to the United States of America, to a small town in the State of Pennsylvania.  With the chocolate egg as my capital, I went into business (anonymously, of course; they are everywhere).  But you may have heard of the town:  it is called Hershey.

Kisses to All!  Vladimir Possipov.