I love Creme Eggs. I love their rarity, bestowed upon the world for a short season of calorific abundance. I love their bright shiny wrappers, gleaming purple and yellow and red. I love their big round chocolatiness, all firm and tempting to the touch. And I love their sweet interior, with swirling creamy fondant and gooey sugar yolk.
I love Creme Eggs. When New Year comes round I always nip down to the supermarket and buy myself a couple of dozen. One of the two multipacks gets ripped open straight away. I peel off a single wrapper, dive in and savour the new season taste. Then I wait a while, usually about a week, before daring to enjoy another. I always treat my stash with due luxurious reverence. The first box usually lasts me until Easter, and then I have 12 more eggs to ration through the long summer months. They're never quite the same after their sell-by-date, not even straight out of the fridge, but they still taste great eaten "rare" in out-of-season November.
I love Creme Eggs. I love the syrupy stickiness as I peel off the foil. Can I unfurl the chocolatey contents without ripping the wrapper, or will I be thwarted as the coating tears into tiny fragile fragments? If the paper's still in one piece then I try to fold it back around the base of the egg to give me something to hold onto, then bite softly into the brown fudgy top. Just the top half off the egg to start with, never everything all in one go. I relish the sickly taste of the carbohydrates on my tongue, then swoosh the liquefying contents around the inside of my mouth before gulping them down my welcoming throat. I always intend to eat my egg slowly but I have minimal restraint, and the second half usually follows pretty soon afterwards. Gobble, swallow, gone.
I love Creme Eggs. I love the sense of wicked satisfaction after I've devoured one. I love scrunching up the wrapper into a tiny ball of foil and seeing how small I can squash it before throwing it deftly into a bin. I love the sweet smell that lingers on my fingers for up to an hour afterwards - a perfumed reminder of guilty pleasures past. And yes, I know these chocolate confections are nothing more than an unholy cocktail of vegetable fats, sugar, emulsifiers, unskimmed milk, cocoa solids, glucose syrup and artificial flavourings, but I love Creme Eggs all the same.
My doctor told me yesterday that I probably shouldn't ever eat another one.
I've had better Mondays.
I love Creme Eggs. I love their rarity, bestowed upon the world for a short season of calorific abundance. I love their bright shiny wrappers, gleaming purple and yellow and red. I love their big round chocolatiness, all firm and tempting to the touch. And I love their sweet interior, with swirling creamy fondant and gooey sugar yolk.
I love Creme Eggs. I love the syrupy stickiness as I peel off the foil. Can I unfurl the chocolatey contents without ripping the wrapper, or will I be thwarted as the coating tears into tiny fragile fragments? If the paper's still in one piece then I try to fold it back around the base of the egg to give me something to hold onto, then bite softly into the brown fudgy top. Just the top half off the egg to start with, never everything all in one go. I relish the sickly taste of the carbohydrates on my tongue, then swoosh the liquefying contents around the inside of my mouth before gulping them down my welcoming throat. I always intend to eat my egg slowly but I have minimal restraint, and the second half usually follows pretty soon afterwards. Gobble, swallow, gone.
I love 