Dear Tinsel Post Readers,
There are certain holidays that arrive with fanfare — bells, lights, a general sense that something very important is about to happen. St. Patrick’s Day is not one of those holidays at the North Pole.
It arrives quietly. A little greener. A little softer. A little more inclined toward second helpings and stories that wander before they arrive anywhere useful.
And every year, without fail, it reminds me of Doug.
🥔 Doug and the Potatoes
Doug was not a remarkable elf in the traditional sense. He didn’t design toys that sang. He didn’t break speed records on the wrapping floor. He once got lost in a supply closet for forty minutes because he followed a particularly confident-looking mop.
But every St. Patrick’s Day, Doug was given one job.
Cut the potatoes.
Simple. Straightforward. The sort of task that requires very little fanfare and even less interpretation.
And yet, Doug approached it like an artist with something to prove.
He cut them smaller.
Not slightly smaller. Not “maybe a bit more manageable” smaller.
Tiny.
Unreasonably tiny.
Potatoes so finely diced they existed somewhere between ingredient and philosophical concept.
🍀 A Question of Intention
The first year, we assumed it was a mistake. The second year, a misunderstanding. By the third year, we realized Doug was doing it on purpose.
When asked why, he would simply shrug and say, “They cook more evenly this way.”
This was, technically, true.
It was also beside the point.
The stew didn’t need evenly cooked potatoes. It needed potatoes that behaved like potatoes — dependable, visible, willing to hold their shape under mild pressure and holiday expectations.
Doug, however, had other ideas.
And so every year, we served a stew that was, depending on your perspective, either exceptionally smooth or quietly confusing.
☘️ The Luck We Don’t Notice
Here’s the thing about St. Patrick’s Day at the North Pole: we don’t rely much on luck.
We rely on systems. On schedules. On lists that have lists. On the kind of preparation that makes magic look effortless and chaos look like a personal choice.
But once a year, we allow a little looseness into the edges.
A little room for things that don’t quite go according to plan.
A stew that doesn’t behave the way stew usually behaves.
A potato that refuses to be what it was supposed to be.
Doug never explained himself fully. He didn’t need to. His contribution wasn’t about efficiency or tradition. It was about something quieter.
Attention.
Care.
The small, unnecessary decision to do something a little differently, simply because you could.
🥣 What Remains
Doug has long since moved on to other departments — though I’m told the Inventory Division now receives packages labeled with a level of precision that borders on microscopic.
But every St. Patrick’s Day, when the potatoes hit the cutting boards and the kitchen fills with that familiar warmth, someone inevitably pauses, looks down, and says, “Should we…?”
And someone else, usually without looking up, says, “No.”
A beat passes.
Then, quietly, one potato gets cut just a little smaller than necessary.
For Doug.
Humbly Mashed,
Jingle P. Peppermint
Editor-in-Chief
The Tinsel Post
P.S. For the record, Doug insists he was “ahead of his time.” The Culinary Team insists he was “a problem.” As usual, the truth is probably sitting somewhere in the middle… finely diced.
