I’m not a big celebrant of Easter. In fact, I tend to call it Hoppy Bunny Day, or Happy Zombie Jesus Day, and treat it like any other day. In fact this year I attended a Reiki class, and blew blood vessel in my eye.
But this post doesn’t really have anything to do with Easter as a celebration. It has everything to do with half of what most small kids love about the holiday: Chocolate bunnies. The other half, as you might expect, is coloured eggs.
But yes, chocolate bunnies.
As a kid, I was woken up every Easter by a trail of sparkly plastic grass, dyed eggs, and chocolate goodies. I’d follow the trail, gathering up dyed eggs as I went, out to the living room. There, a large inflatable Easter Bunny would sit, waiting for me to go round up all the eggs we dyed. At his feet would usually sit an Easter basket, full of candy and stuff. Sometimes there was a chocolate bunny.
I never ate the chocolate bunny as a kid, and I never really thought about why. Until last year.
Last year, Nonny gave Pet and I both chocolate bunnies for Easter. It was our Easter gift. This is what they looked like:
It’s a Too Tall Chocolate Bunny if that doesn’t load. He’s in a basketball outfit, holding a ball, and he’s all ears.
I decided I wanted some chocolate bunny, so I pulled it out of the package to take a bite. And I just stared at it. And stared at it. And it looked back at me!
I couldn’t eat it. So I put it back in the box and made distressed meowing noises at Pet until I was asked what was wrong.
“I can’t eat it! It’s looking at me!”
I expected sympathy. I expected a hug.
Pet laughed at me. And then laughed some more at my expression.
In the end, we reached a chocolate bunny compromise. I got the tunic, shoes, and basketball. Pet ate anything even remotely resembling bunny pieces.
The second bunny met an untimely demise with the passenger seat, so we threw him out, saving me another bunny conundrum.
This year, no chocolate bunnies, so I was saved.