Here’s hoping

Last Easter, the Easter Bunny forgot me. Totally blanked. 

He hopped through my house and delivered chocolate treats for everyone, except me. There wasn’t a single Cadbury Creme Egg to be found. You can imagine my disappointment. It’s the only treat I wanted. Once a year. It’s tradition. 

I know what you’re thinking: Kelly, you silly rabbit, the Easter Bunny is actually your beloved spouse, the Carpenter. 

Yeah, I thought so too. I mean, that seems plausible because he is forgetful. He did seem a little sheepish last year, when he and our now adult children found their basket of sweet treats laid out on the kitchen table, lovingly wrapped and personally adorned with their individual names, so everyone’s chocolate stash was clearly marked. Well, everyone except me, that is. Weird.

Could the Carpenter, a man who knows my weakness for Cadbury Creme Eggs, really have forgotten me? It’s redundant to even pose that question, because I’m pretty hard to forget or ignore (just ask him). 

If “nostalgia eating” were a thing, this candy would be my emotional trigger. I am old enough to remember a time when you could only get these Cadbury treasures from early March to mid-April and then they’d disappear. Poof. The anticipation of seeing those treats again was half the fun. Ah, but then consumerism won and the eggs were available year round, and soon other wanna-be brands were following suit. Let the record show, there is only one Cadbury Creme Egg and the only time of year it should be eaten is now. 

Not only are my Creme Eggs a superior treat with a thick chocolate egg shell, but it’s filled with a gooey, sticky white and orange sugar ooze that resembles that of a real egg yolk, with a list of unpronounceable ingredients that make it as disgusting as it should be. All the guilt and the pleasure; I’m here for it. Once a year. It’s tradition. 

Yet, last Easter Sunday, I watched my beloved stuffing little chocolate eggs into his mouth, one after another, absentmindedly, while watching golf on TV. You know the chocolate eggs that come in the mesh bags? It’s amateur chocolate, really. But still, he had some and I did not.

As the slowest televised sport on Earth played on, the Carpenter amassed a colourful collection of balled up tin foil wrappers, teetering on the brink of the table beside him. It’s like he was stockpiling the evidence that the Easter Bunny loved him more. Because he did. 

At one point, the Carpenter spotted me watching him enjoy his chocolate bounty, and he looked almost apologetic, as if maybe he was the real Easter Bunny and the guilt of forgetting to purchase one Cadbury Creme Egg for his wife, his best friend, the mother of his children and the other half of the joint bank account, finally got to him. 

Turns out, he wasn’t sorry at all. It was gas. But he did agree to talk to the Easter Bunny to ensure mistakes were not made for Easter 2023.

Last week, I saw the Carpenter leaving a carrot in the garden, perhaps to bribe the big bunny to hop to it and deliver this year. Here’s hoping. Whatever it takes. 

Once a year. It’s tradition. 

Happy Easter to you and yours, from me and mine.

WriteOut of Her Mind