They appear slowly at first in tiny displays in gas stations and Walmarts. Even though Easter falls significantly after Valentine’s Day, the Cadbury eggs coexist peacefully with chalky candy hearts and lip-shaped lollipops.
But it’s the Cadburys that own my heart. I’ve often said Easter is the best holiday because it offers the best candy selection: the Cadbury eggs, the solid chocolate bunnies, Reese’s Eggs (so superior to regular Reese’s), the Starburst jellybeans.
Once I hear a whisper of Cadburys, I’m a girl possessed. I drive all over the city to find them. I know they’re out there and I creep around corners in stores, adrenaline pumping, scouting them out. My brother says I’m like a morel-hunting pig when it comes to Cadbury eggs. I buy 10 at a time and cup their gorgeous, perfect weight in my palm like a treasure. I apply for SuperAmerica rewards programs solely to get the discount, two precious eggs for $1.50. I carry them around in my purse like a mama chicken guarding her eggs. Eating them is always the highlight of my day. I look forward to it. Cadburys console me, excite me, enchant me.
The Cadbury egg is pure perfection. I don’t mean their tiny, chalky baby siblings you buy in packs or the solid chocolate version. I mean the round, flawless shells of chocolate protectively enclosing that sweet, melty fondant. The caramel version is OK, but nothing matches the sugar rush of the OG Cadbury. I lust for them. I crave them. Some days I make eating them an event, scraping the fondant out with a spoon and savoring the experience piece by sweet, flawless piece.
Cadbury crème eggs have been around since 1963. They’re historical treasures! They’ve been sold almost unaltered since that day, though the American size is slightly smaller than the British version. At 150 calories, they’re the most decadent snack I can imagine. And that sweet, clucking bunny in the commercial has endured over the ages; I cannot imagine the Easter season without it.
In college, I ate a Cadbury egg every day alongside my noontime Diet Coke. I remember pulling one out of my bag during a lecture and the girl next to me whispered, “Gross. I have diabetes just looking at you.” I shot her the death glare, then cracked my precious Cadbury and slid the whole thing into my mouth just for spite.
Cadburys are a candy divided. People love them passionately or they detest them. Perhaps they’re just not ready for that slippery fondant bursting forth; sometimes it’s runny, so you can suck it out. Often it’s a bit firmer, chewier. It’s delicious either way. Perhaps the anti-Cadbury folk hate beauty and joy and sugar. Perhaps they’re being charitable and leaving more Cadburys for me to devour. In that case, thank you. Oh Cadburys, you are my heart and my soul. You do things for me no man can ever do. The high I experience when I find you is nothing drugs or alcohol or sex could ever replace.
Each Cadbury season I consider buying an entire box of my candy love, but would that make them less precious? Do I love them so much because they’re rare, they’re a limited edition meant to spark my obsessive nature? Apparently when Cadbury made them available year-round, sales dropped. We always want what’s unattainable, don’t we?