One egg, two egg, red egg, blue egg

In contemplating what tale to regale you with next, o readers, I realized that a special time of year is upon us. No, I don’t mean the rogue seder my family is having this evening to accommodate my sister's return to college by the point Passover actually starts. Though that is special (and specially breaking about 65 religious rules, no doubt) as well; I don’t think we have all been in the same place for Passover since I went to college. And I don’t mean Easter (which I just Freudianly mistyped as “Eater”) either, though I guess my subject is a bit closer to that venerated occasion. No, folks, I mean…

Cadbury eggs! I rarely eat just straight-up candy anymore, but I would eat one of these every day if I could. I can’t remember when I first had one, but they are my favorite candy in the world, in all their infinite variety—I don’t know if I prefer the classic crème, the melty-smooth caramel, or the tiny little speckled ones that come in a purple package. It is always very exciting when Cadbury season rolls around. The drugstores lose that insipid valentine candy and instead rows upon rows of chocolate eggs grow from their formerly-barren aisles.

An egg is a perfect form in which to enjoy filled chocolate. Candy bar? Not so much. But an egg, you can pick up, you can devour in a few satisfying bites, the ratio of inside to outside is perfection… ah. I know I am not alone in this sentiment; I have fond memories of my dear wife A.— and I greedily acquiring these wonders and eating them in the Science Center whenever spring rolled round. A.—, I hope you have an egg right now, wherever you are. Or, y'know, five.

I will add, at the risk of grossing out and alienating some of you (but hey, I will know who my true friends are after this), that the form of the sublime in Cadbury crème eggs has been perfected by one A Salt and Battery. At this British-style chipshop, they fry an egg in a deep fryer and it comes out all crispy on the outside and gooey and chocolatey on the inside and amazing on all sides. I have not had one in many a year, which is probably a good thing, as it costs about three dollars, is no doubt launching a collision course to give me a heart attack, and is devourable in about 30 seconds flat.

But! This year! Disaster has struck! I have been unable to locate any eggs. Yesterday, I finally and gloriously discovered some caramel ones (which the salesperson inexplicably discounted 25 cents apiece for me—thank you, wherever you are!), but I have not found any others except, at one point, a couple of beaten-about-looking orange crème eggs, which are Not The Same. People tell me the eggs are everywhere; perhaps I am just an unlucky individual. R.— even assures me they have them at the Duane Reade down the street. Guess I know where I’ll be going on my lunch break.

PS: Even if I do get one, apparently there is a conspiracy afoot. Watch and weep.