Easter has come around quicker than one of Tiger’s mistresses selling their story to a trashy magazine. There was the standard build up of hot cross buns doing their annual get together with wholegrain loaves in the supermarket and a tower of delicious Creme eggs watching your every move at the check-out counter.
I hadn’t been in New Zealand for the last couple of Easters, so I had forgotten the power of total chocolate immersion and foil-wrapped bunnies. In the weeks leading up to Easter, I had imagined myself lying cast in a chocolate smeared coma, with shiny wrappers strewn around me. Turns out, I wasn’t far off from that picture in my mind.
Today it’s Easter Monday, and in the last 30 hours I have already demolished:
1 x large hollow chocolate egg
1 x marshmallow egg
1 x Creme egg
1 x innocent chocolate bunny
A bunch of real eggs, and I have another rabbit and some Jaffas to go.
Poor little bunnies had no idea what hit them. It began as a slow and painful death when the ears were secretly devoured first. The rest of the body didn’t stand a chance, as I managed to polish it off in record speed like I thought it was going to hop off with just its decapitated legs.
But who doesn’t like that first bite into an over-priced chocolate egg. That kind of bite where you wrap your lips around the top, sink your teeth in, and hear that crack as the chocolate falls to the bottom. Like a giant ice shelf breaking away in the globally warmed Antarctic. You feel powerful with a pinch of evil at the same time.
But where did this self-induced chocolate overdose come from? Was it the fact that when I was a kid I was given enough Easter eggs to survive for a week without eating anything else, or is it because I have been depriving myself of chocolate in the weeks leading up to Easter because I know I will be in a ripping and scoffing frenzy?
Right now, I have a chocolate hangover. Like an alcoholic, I’m just waiting for the hunger to subside before I peel back another foil wrapper. I know that in the short-term I am going to have skin that rivals a teenager’s. But I really don’t care. Because let’s face it, this only happens once a year.