Barnaby the Bear meticulously arranged tiny slices of honeycomb on bark platters, brushing away specks of dirt with a seriousness reserved for only the truest culinary artists. The air is sweet with the scent of wildflowers and anticipation. Nearby, Gary the Raccoon fussed with his makeshift Taco Bell wrapper cape, checking his reflection in a puddle. "Do you think this cape says 'distinguished' or 'dumpster-chic'?"

Brenda the Squirrel scurried up to the table, her eyes wide and jittery as she tucked something suspiciously coaster-shaped into her cheek. Kevin the Moose arrived last, his enormous frame awkwardly squeezing between two pine trunks, antlers wobbling dangerously close to Barnaby’s carefully arranged slate. "Did you know your rocks taste like old rain?" "That’s not an appetizer, Kevin. Please, just… sit."

Barnaby cleared his throat with a flourish, gesturing to the slate where a golden puddle of clover honey gleamed. "Today, we begin with a robust Clover-infused nectar, harvested from the East Meadow. Notice the floral notes and the hint of..." "Mmmph," Kevin interrupted, licking the table with gusto. "Kevin, please stop licking the table. It’s a rock." "Sorry. I thought it was a giant grey cracker."

Barnaby sliced a perfect square of honeycomb and placed it before Brenda, his eyes closed as he savored the imagined reaction. "The mouthfeel should be velvety. Imagine the sun setting over a field of purple blossoms..." Suddenly, a loud crunch shattered the moment—Gary was devouring an entire jar of honey, glass and all. "Gary! That was the limited edition 'Midnight Swarm' blend!" "Tastes like yellow. Hey, you got any napkins? Or a dumpster I can rummage through? I’m still at a three out of ten on the fullness scale."

Barnaby opened his mouth to lecture on foraging ethics, but everything happened at once—Kevin hooked the tablecloth with one antler and a pine branch with the other. In a desperate attempt to back away, Kevin’s hooves scrambled, sending him moonwalking into the “living centerpiece”—a now-furious beehive. The bees, not fans of fine dining, poured out in a black-and-gold storm, chasing guests in all directions.

Brenda is long gone, scampering three miles away, convinced the bees were government spies. Kevin stands knee-deep in the lake, nostrils barely above water, while Gary uses his “formal” cape to scoop sticky honey out of the dirt. Barnaby sits alone on a stump, a single bee sting swelling on his nose, picking at a plain, muddy salmon. "Fine. Next time, we’re just doing a potluck. But Kevin is only allowed to bring napkins."