Easter Eggs for the Czar

                                EASTER EGGS FOR THE CZAR

                                              Vladimir Possipov

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 and secret spices. I was the Imperial Easter Egg Maker in the Court of Nicholas and Alexandra, and my art was even greater than Faberge's for its evanescence. A Possipov confection was like a Nijinsky entrechat-dix--impossible to capture, but once experienced, never forgotten.

I was working in my father's humble candy shop in the village of Kobal when the Czar's messengers came for me. I had no time to pack or change, off I went in the 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 as the horses clattered over 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 wishes 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 need? Is the larder satisfactory?"

My poor naive peasant eyes grew wide. Never had I seen such treasures: peach halves in Cognac, figs the size of gourds, sacks of Indian cashews, barrels of coconuts, apricots glazed with honey, coffee beans and peppermint plants, gigantic slabs of Belgian chocolate...

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 occasions--like the life-size chocolate St. Nicholas that stood in the square at 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 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 culmination, the pinnacle 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. I had already prepared a packing crate for the egg, and addressed it to Miss Pola Negri, Hollywood, USA--a particular favorite of Stalin's.

And that is how I came to leave Russia. Once in the United States of America, I made my way to a small town in Pennsylvania. There, with the chocolate egg as my capital, I went into business. (Under a new name, of course--they are everywhere. I became known as O. Henry, the chocolate maker.)

And--such undreamed of happiness! I fell in love with a maiden known as Sweet Marie, and we have lived happily ever after, with our children, Hershey, Reese and Godiva, and the twins, Masha and Moishe--or, as we call them, M and M.

Sweet wishes for Easter, and hopes for a return to the splendor and decadence of the glorious Romanov past!

                                                          V. Possipov.



    

Cue the Salamander

It is reported that fossils of super-size salamanders have been discovered in Portugal. These lethal lizards, which lived 200 million years ago, were the size of crocodiles, and they existed on a caveman diet.

What next, we wonder, from our Paleolithic past? Gerbils the size of 18-wheelers? Mosquitoes with wings like 747s? Man-eating squirrels?

The news will, we're sure, have been greeted with cries of joy in Hollywood, where even now scripts are being rushed into production for such films as "Rise of the Giant Salamanders" and "Planet of the Lizards."

Arnold Schwarzenegger is ready.

Cruzin' for the Presidency

The only person born in Calgary campaigning to become President of the United States declared his candidacy today. Ted Cruz, wearing jeans to show he's a regular Texan guy, announced that he is ready to go to Washington and fix things.

Note to movie fans: This is Ted Cruz, not Tom Cruise, although Tom, taking on another Mission Impossible, might have a better chance of getting elected.

Checking the Date

The United Nations has declared this International Happiness Day, which, considering the shape the world is in, shows what a fine sense of irony they have down there at the UN.

It is also, according to the calendar, the first day of spring. The two songs that spring--oops, sorry--the first songs that leap to mind are "They Say It's Spring" and "Spring Will Be a LIttle Late This Year."

And this was the birth date, in 1928, of Mister Rogers. Put on your cardigan and sneakers and have a lovely day in your neighborhood.

Making No Bones About It

There is word out of Madrid that researchers believe they may have unearthed the bones of Miguel de Cervantes from the convent grounds where he was buried 399 years ago.

Cervantes, for those who tuned in late, wrote "Don Quixote de La Mancha," considered by many to be the greatest of all novels (although not by those holding out for "War and Peace" or "Dream of the Red Chamber" or "I, the Jury").

The Spanish writer expressed a rueful sense of humor in the face of many misfortunes, and he might simply shrug at this latest indignity (which is not as embarrassing as the digging up of Yves Montand to find DNA and settle a paternity claim).

Even so, Cervantes might wish he had left gravestone instructions similar to those of his English contemporary, W. Shakespeare. These read:

"Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear
To dig the dust enclosed here;
Blest be the man that spares these stones,
And curst be he that moves my bones."

Notes of a Political Junkie

* BC's Liberal government has announced a multi-million dollar program for road and bridge building outside Metro Vancouver--"where it's needed, and where people actually vote for us."

* Owen Sound gave us Tom Thompson, Billy Bishop, and now...Larry Miller??

* Didn't we all feel safer when we saw that photo of Stephen Harper squinting over the barrel of a .303 Lee Enfield?

* It is reported that Playboy magazine has published an interview with Dick Cheney. As long as they don't give us a Cheney centrefold.

* And who knew Netanyahu was Irish?

Big Julie and St. Pat

We have made it past the Ides of March, which is more than Julius Caesar did. Ignoring the soothsayer's advice to stay away from the Forum that day, the Roman ruler gave Wayne and Shuster material for one of their most famous skits: "Big Julie, I said, don't go!" And "Bartender, give me a martinus." "You mean a martini." "If I want two, I'll ask for them." A joke unappreciated by those who flunked Latin.

Next major event on the calendar is St. Patrick's Day. St. Pat (who was not actually Irish, but don't say that down at O'Doul's Pub) is famous for chasing the snakes out of Ireland and for explaining the Holy Trinity by holding up a three-leaf shamrock--which still left some of us confused.

Adam McDowell, who writes a National Post column called "Fix My Drink," and undoubtedly enjoys his research, has suggested various St. Patrick's potables. Included, of course, is Black Velvet, a combination of Champagne and stout. Mixer McDowell recommends pouring the Champagne first and topping it with stout.

But the drink that surprised us was the Tipperary. This is a concoction of Irish whiskey, sweet vermouth, and green Chartreuse, with a twist of orange. Okay, we'll have one. Hold the vermouth. Hold the Chartreuse.

Too bad Caesar didn't have a shaker of Tipperaries that March 15th morning. He never would have made it to the Forum.