Perhaps as you enjoy easter eggs and hotcross buns pause for thought and remember the meaning of easter.
Perhaps as you enjoy easter eggs and hotcross buns pause for thought and remember the meaning of easter.

Surviving Easter break: OPINION

I SURVIVED this Easter break without a chocolate hangover, and I'm mighty proud.

In years gone by, I'd almost be in a cocoa coma by now. Growing up, I had not a shred of self discipline and my share of the chocolate delights that were distributed to my sister and me were mostly gone by the Sunday night.

Not so for my slightly sadistic sibling; she was a bigger hoarder than Creepy Brian down the road who has 15 vehicles in varying stages of disrepair in his front yard. Suffice it to say when his mother fell ill and had to be transported to a nursing home, the ambos had to bring in a crane to make room for the gurney.

Anyway, my sis took great pleasure in saving her stash, for the sole purpose, apparently, of making me suffer for weeks afterwards.

I'm not that sure why my parents allowed me to make such a pig of myself; gluttony was certainly not encouraged at any other time (except for Christmas - perhaps it was a religious thing ...).

And so my sister would delight in removing a portion of foil from an Easter treat, only to sniff the chocolate therein. She'd replace the wrapping and put the lot back under the bed, only to bring it out an hour or three later and break off the tiniest sliver, which she would tuck into her cheek and allow to melt. As she accompanied this procedure with frequent open-mouthed displays (we were only kids, after all), I had no doubt that she could stretch the torture out for at least a month afterwards - and she did. I, in the meantime, would console myself with folding my (sadly empty) foil into little squares and cutting tiny shapes out of them, so when I unfolded them there would be a kaleidoscopic pattern revealed. Small compensation, really.

My great downfall was the nougat-filled eggs made by Darrell Lea, a passion I share with Nicole Kidman, I discovered a few years ago. (To change the subject just a little - Nicole, it's time to speak to your hubby about his hair. There's something wrong when a country and western singer spends more time styling his tresses than does his movie star wife. Less time with the hair straighteners, more time writing songs, Keith. Just sayin'.) But I digress.

The almost unbearably sweet chewy coconut filling of those eggs (and their counterpart Christmas puddings - there's that religious connection again) has stayed with me to this day. I still see them on the shelves, but I have resisted buying them for a number of years now.

And the reason? I just bought a new pair of skinny-leg jeans. Not smart when you no longer have skinny legs.



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