by Rob Perez

Mrs. Claus

This time of year, we tend to think of the usual cast of Christmas characters. The elves, busy and industrious. The reindeer, loyal and aerodynamic. And of course, the Big Man himself—the one who ho-ho-hos his way through the global supply chain in a single night.

But I’d like to nudge our gaze a little. Just a touch. To include someone who has been here every year, year after year, century after century — and yet we pay so little attention to her that entire lifetimes can go by without giving her a single thought.

It’s time we consider Mrs. Claus.

We know so little about the Missus. And yet, it is not quite nothing. We know she is homely in the classic winter–storybook way. We know she is genial, round, and quietly maternal. We know she is loyal—steadfast—content to orbit a man the world has placed at the center of the holiday universe. But of all the scant facts we have about her, the one we tell ourselves most oft is this: Mrs. Claus bakes.

There is already some discussion, of course, about when she bakes—whether it is around the clock, sunup to sundown, or, more accurately for the North Pole, sundown to slightly darker sundown. There is also ample commentary on what she bakes: treats, cakes, pies, scones, gingerbread and, of course, cookies. So many, many cookies. But as yet, I’ve found no serious inquiry into the central mystery: why Mrs. Claus bakes. Thus, we pause our December to get to the bottom of the why.

I have heard three theories as to why Mrs. Claus bakes.

1) One theory is that she bakes because, every hundred years or so, Mildred Claus renews her fear of sugar. In the 1700s, sugar was considered a moral toxin, capable of inflaming one’s passions and weakening one’s resolve. In the 1800s, the temperance movement warned her that sugar could lead to vice—an accusation she took personally. In the early 1900s, a well-meaning doctor informed her it might weaken the constitution, which troubled her deeply, as her constitution was already precarious. And in this century, all of her suspicions were medically confirmed in Robert Lustig’s Metabolical, a book she read by the light of a single, trembling candle. And yet, every morning, like a moth to the flame, before her first cup of coffee, Mrs. Claus preheats the oven to 350 degrees.

2) Another explanation is that she bakes because she suffers from Seasonal Affective Disorder—though at the North Pole, the term is somewhat redundant. When your daylight hours number approximately zero and your “summer” feels like a Minnesota winter, this will impact your mood. In the season without sun, the oven is the only consistent source of light and warmth. Its glow is her sunrise. Its heat is her summer. The timer is the closest thing she has to a circadian rhythm.

3) Or perhaps—more simply, more sadly—she bakes because she is lonely. Santa is emotionally available, yes, but first and foremost to the children of the world. He pours out his heart across continents and time zones, leaving very little behind for the Missus. The elves, for all their enthusiasm, are simply too zany to sustain a meaningful emotional exchange. And the reindeer, while affectionate, do not smell all that great. At the end of the day, when the workshops quiet and the stable settles, all she has is baking. It is her companion, her occupation, and—on the darkest winter nights—her only witness.

While these are entertaining theories, I happen to know the truth. Mrs. Claus bakes because the whole world looks at her and only sees an extension of him. When will anyone ask how she’s doing? When will we stop calling her Mrs. Claus and finally call her by her name—Mildred.