I finally had my Cadbury creme egg yesterday.  Yes, I know it’s the middle of May.  And though I’m not sure,  I believe Easter was in March or April this year.  I save mine.  I savor mine.  I only have one a year.  This is not some diet fad, nor a protest against the Hershey’s distribution of Cadbury’s in this country, nor a wartime ration.  I just have one a year, as I have had since I was a kid.  Growing up, we had certain rules on Junk Food, which we differentiated from Grow Food, which was of course different from Mommie’s Go Juice, but I digress.  Soda could not be consumed before 11am, nor after 5pm, due to sugar and caffeine.  Junk Food could only be consumed after an appropriate amount of Grow Food.  And we were alloted one Cadbury Creme Egg a year.   Of course, there was plenty of othe junk throughout the year: home-baked goodies constantly emerging from the oven; Sunday morning trips to Dunkin’ Donuts before religious school; and Hallowe’en candy I hoarded into January.  Somehow, though, only one Cadbury Creme Egg. 

From the wikipedia entry, from the Cadbury site:  Cadbury Creme Egg is manufactured by making a chocolate shell in a half-egg shaped mold, which is then filled with white fondant and a dab of yellow fondant to simulate the yolk.

To me, it’s a chocolate egg with straight-up frosting in the middle.  I would eat it over the course of 45 minutes, if I could, biting enough shell off to access the fondant, then slowly licking the fondant in miniscule amount until at last the shell was clean.  Then I would lick, bite, taste, and nibble at the shell until I had nothing left but chocolately fingerprints and chocolate gluing my mouth closed.  I don’t think it still takes me 45 minutes, but you’d better believe I savor my egg.  Same thing with the fudge my mother would make.  I would steal away from the kitchen with a cold cube grasped between my thumb and index finger.  I made it last as long as humanly possible, licking, smooshing, until it was nothing but a chocolately pincer grasp. 

Mr. Apron, on the other hand, is a sensory-seeker.  He thinks Reese’s peanut butter cups (big ones) are one-bite foods.  He thinks Oreos are one-bite foods.  I take my Oreo/Newman-O/Twist-n-Shout/Hydrox and carefully dip it in tea until it’s all but falling into my mug.  Then I delicately eat all the soggy bits, and dip again.  Sure, he’s finished all his cookies by the time I move onto my second, but I’m savoring.  He’s stuffing.  I think he burns his calories during consumption; how else can you explain his metabolism?  I think his sensory seeking behaviors are sub-clinical; I’m not going to go all occupational therapist on his ass.  It just highlights a difference between us.

He’ll eat all the good pieces of frosted mini-wheats first, and leave the crumbs of the lousy ones last, for the dog.  I eat all the half-frosted ones first, and keep the sugar-binging pieces last, for a treat.  Maybe this is reflective of our approaches to life.  Maybe he’s an eat-dessert-first, life-is-uncertain kind of guy, and I’m the save-the-best-for-last kind of gal.  That’s why we have separate bowls of frosted mini-wheats, or he’d eat all the good ones before I had a chance. 

One thing he does do, is save a rye chip for last in the Chex Mix Bold bag.  They’re the best pieces.  The pretzels are okay, the sourdough breadsticks are flavorless and just suck, and the chex pieces are nice.  But the rye chips just rock.  They’re so good, we even incorporated them into our wedding vows.  On our wedding day, we each took turns reading,

“I will save the last rye chip for you.”

And we do.

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