How I Survived The Great Christmas Tree Cake Shortage of '23.
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
In the autumn of 2023, I learned something about myself.
Something I wish I hadn't.
Something that, frankly, I'm not proud of.
I learned that I am capable of driving to eleven different stores in a single afternoon—
across three counties—
in increasingly desperate pursuit of—
Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes.
Not for a child.
Not for a party.
Not even for a reasonable nostalgic craving.
Just... for me.
Because they were gone.
And when something becomes scarce—
when something you've always been able to casually acquire suddenly isn't there—
you stop being a rational person.
You become a hunter.
A gatherer.
A hoarder.
THE DISCOVERY
It was mid-November.
Still too early for Christmas, technically.
But the stores had already pivoted.
Turkeys were being shoved aside.
Pumpkin spice was being purged.
And the seasonal snack cakes—
those beautiful, unnecessary, chemically-preserved monuments to holiday joy—
were appearing.
I went to my local Kroger.
Casual.
Not even thinking about it.
Just wandered down the snack cake aisle like I always do.
And there they were.
Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes.
Green frosting.
Red and white sprinkles.
That unmistakable tree shape.
Childhood in a box.
I grabbed two.
Thought about grabbing three.
Decided I wasn't an animal.
Two was reasonable.
Two was civilized.
I went home.
Ate one that night.
It was perfect.
Artificially perfect.
The kind of perfect that can only be achieved through industrial food science and a complete disregard for nutritional value.
I thought: I'll get more next week.
THE SHORTAGE BEGINS
Next week came.
I went back to Kroger.
The shelf where the Christmas Tree Cakes had been?
Empty.
Not "running low."
Not "picked over."
Empty.
Just a gap.
A void.
Where joy used to be.
I asked someone stocking shelves nearby.
"Excuse me, do you know when you're getting more Christmas Tree Cakes?"
He looked at me.
Then at the empty shelf.
Then back at me.
And shrugged.
Shrugged.
As if this wasn't a crisis.
"Supply chain issues," he said.
And walked away.
Supply chain issues.
Those three words.
The explanation for everything wrong in the modern world.
THE SEARCH EXPANDS
I went to another Kroger.
Empty.
Target.
Empty.
Walmart—which I avoid on principle but desperate times, etc.
Empty.
Meijer.
CVS.
Walgreens.
Dollar General (where I still have honorary status, thank you very much).
All empty.
It was like the Christmas Tree Cakes had been raptured.
Taken up to snack cake heaven.
Leaving the rest of us behind to suffer through regular Swiss Rolls like peasants.
THE ESCALATION
I started checking stores I didn't even know existed.
Small regional grocers.
Gas stations in towns I'd never heard of.
A place called "SaveMart" that looked like it had been abandoned in 1987 but was somehow still operating.
Nothing.
I joined Facebook groups.
Yes.
Facebook groups.
Groups with names like "Little Debbie Lovers" and "Snack Cake Hunters."
People were posting photos.
Grainy, desperate photos.
"Found ONE box at a gas station in Terre Haute!"
"Limit 2 per customer at the Meijer on 86th Street!"
It was like a black market.
A snack cake underground.
People were trading.
"I'll give you a box of Zebra Cakes for half a box of Christmas Trees."
Someone offered $30 for a single box.
Thirty dollars!
For something that retails for $2.99!
I did not pay thirty dollars.
But I considered it.
And that—
that's when I knew I'd lost myself.
THE RATIONING
I still had one box left.
The second box I'd bought back when the world made sense.
I put it in the pantry.
And I rationed.
One cake per week.
Maybe two if I'd had a particularly difficult day.
I treated each one like a sacrament.
Opening the plastic wrapper slowly.
Appreciating the artificial green frosting.
The spongy vanilla cake beneath.
The cream filling that tasted like nostalgia and preservatives.
I made them last.
Because I didn't know if I'd ever see them again.
THE THEORIES
People had theories about the shortage.
Theory 1: Ingredient Issues
Maybe there was a shortage of the specific dye used for the green frosting.
Or the sprinkles.
Or the essence of tree.
Theory 2: Increased Demand
Maybe everyone had the same idea at the same time.
Maybe 2023 was the year everyone collectively decided they needed Christmas Tree Cakes.
A shared cultural craving.
Theory 3: Corporate Strategy
Maybe—and this is the dark one—
Maybe Little Debbie was intentionally creating scarcity.
Manufacturing demand through deprivation.
Making us desperate.
Making us pay attention.
I didn't want to believe it.
But capitalism is capable of anything.
Theory 4: The Simulation
Maybe we're in a simulation and whoever's running it just... forgot to restock the Christmas Tree Cakes.
A small glitch.
An oversight.
And we—the NPCs—are left scrambling.
(I don't actually believe this one. But late at night, driving to my eighth store, it seemed plausible.)
THE BREAKDOWN
There was a moment—
a low point—
when I stood in the snack cake aisle of a Marsh Supermarket that was clearly about to go out of business.
Flickering lights.
Half-empty shelves.
An employee who looked like he'd been there since the Carter administration.
And I said—
out loud—
to no one—
"Why? Why is this happening to me?"
The employee looked over.
Said nothing.
Went back to stocking canned corn.
And I realized:
This wasn't happening to me.
This was just... happening.
The world doesn't owe me Christmas Tree Cakes.
Little Debbie doesn't owe me anything.
Scarcity is not personal.
It's just... the way things are sometimes.
But knowing that didn't make it hurt less.
THE BREAKTHROUGH
And then.
December 12th.
I was at a Kroger.
Not even looking for them anymore.
Just buying milk and bread like a normal person who had moved on with his life.
And I turned the corner into the snack cake aisle—
purely by chance—
and there—
THERE—
Fully stocked.
Two full rows.
Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes.
Green frosting gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
Like a miracle.
Like manna.
Like the universe had finally decided I'd suffered enough.
I stood there.
Frozen.
A woman with a cart tried to get past me.
I didn't move.
She went around.
I approached slowly.
Afraid that if I moved too fast they'd disappear.
That this was a mirage.
A cruel trick.
But I reached out—
and they were real.
THE DECISION
Here's where it gets interesting.
I stood there.
Cart in hand.
Staring at two full rows of Christmas Tree Cakes.
After weeks of searching.
After eleven stores.
After joining Facebook groups and considering black market purchases.
After rationing my last box like it was the final days of a siege.
And I thought:
How many do I take?
The old me—the me from six weeks ago—would have said "two boxes."
Maybe three.
Reasonable.
Modest.
But the me standing there—
the me who had been scarred by scarcity—
wanted to take all of them.
Every single box.
To protect myself from future deprivation.
To ensure this never happened again.
To hoard.
THE CHOICE
I took four boxes.
Four.
Not two.
Not all of them.
Four.
A compromise between my fear and my conscience.
Enough to feel secure.
Not enough to deprive someone else.
At checkout, the cashier looked at my cart.
Four boxes of Christmas Tree Cakes.
Milk.
Bread.
She said nothing.
But I saw the judgment.
Or maybe I just felt it.
Because I was judging myself.
THE REFLECTION
I got home.
Put the boxes in the pantry.
Stared at them.
And felt... strange.
Not happy.
Not satisfied.
Just... strange.
Because I'd gotten what I wanted.
But the wanting had changed me.
Had revealed something about my character.
Something about how quickly I can go from "rational person" to "person hoarding snack cakes."
Scarcity does that.
It strips away the veneer.
Shows you who you really are when resources are limited.
And apparently, I am someone who will drive across three counties for artificially flavored sponge cake.
THE AFTERMATH
The Christmas Tree Cakes stayed available after that.
Fully stocked.
Like the shortage had never happened.
Like it was all a test.
A trial.
I ate my four boxes slowly.
Throughout December.
Into January.
They tasted the same.
But different.
Because now they carried weight.
The weight of the search.
The desperation.
The journey.
Food tastes different when you've had to fight for it.
Even if the fight was just driving around looking at empty shelves.
THE LESSON
What did I learn from the Great Christmas Tree Cake Shortage of '23?
Several things:
1. Scarcity reveals character.
And sometimes what it reveals isn't flattering.
2. Nostalgia is powerful.
Powerful enough to make you irrational.
3. We live in a fragile system.
One supply chain hiccup and suddenly your favorite snack cake becomes a rare commodity.
4. Hoarding is a spectrum.
And I'm somewhere on it.
5. Sometimes the quest matters more than the prize.
But also, the prize still matters.
Because it's a Christmas Tree Cake.
And those are objectively delightful.
THE EPILOGUE
It's 2024 now.
The Christmas Tree Cakes are back.
Readily available.
I buy them when I want them.
Two boxes at a time.
Like a civilized person.
But I remember.
I remember the empty shelves.
The eleven stores.
The Facebook groups.
The desperation.
And I know—
I know—
that if it happens again—
if the shelves empty—
if the supply chain falters—
I will do it all over again.
Because I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.
And I am nothing if not committed to my snack cake pursuits.
Even when they reveal the worst parts of who I am.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, holding a Christmas Tree Cake wrapped carefully in plastic. He takes a bite. Savors it. Not because it's particularly delicious—though it is—but because he remembers when he couldn't have it. And that memory? That makes it taste just a little bit sweeter.)