A Seasonal Temptation

I won’t say I have never been tempted because that would be an untruth.  However, I will admit that for 51 weeks of the year, I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in chocolate of any form.  I never window shop in a Godiva’s while strolling through the Mall, and the three aisles in BJs crammed with every possible variety of candy represent the one section of the store I never visit.

Still for some unknown reason, once Palm Sunday arrives, so does my almost maniacal interest in chocolate eggs.  I begin to obsessively search for them in every shop I visit.  I prefer the mysterious kind, neither color coded nor accompanied with a small sheet of paper describing what is inside of each delightful morsel.  No, the mystery is what intrigues me.  I love the surprise.  Sometimes it is a good one especially if the filling is coconut or caramel, or better yet, tinged with orange.  The disappointment of one filled with peppermint makes me appreciate the others still huddled in the pink marble dish I bring out only at Easter.

And like most other things in life, there is a reason for this seasonal fascination because it does end at sundown on Easter Sunday.  The following day whatever is left in the lovely dish is then put into the freezer until I visit a household with a child who can savor them.

Sometimes I remember trekking down Ninth Avenue on either Good Friday or Holy Saturday with my Mother as she searched for Duck Eggs for my Paternal Grandfather.  I was old enough to realize sometimes asking questions was not a good thing, but still I had to wonder.  Why did we have to look so hard for eggs for someone my Mother rarely visited?  The relationship between my Dad’s Father and Mom was strained to put it mildly.  Yet at Easter it was imperative she find the eggs that the elderly man recalled from his youth in Ireland.  There was no consumer demand for organic food in those years, and certainly no gourmet shops on Ninth Avenue, so it was not a simple quest.  Yet we did it successfully until the year I was 17, and Pop Donlon left our world.

This week as I gathered my cache of tiny chocolate treats and placed them gently on the pink marble oval, I wondered if it is the symbolism rather than the chocolate that entices me for only 7 days a year.  Are the eggs symbolic of the time ahead in my life?  Will each morning with its sun or clouds or even snow be the coating of the minutes and hours to come?  Perhaps some of these days may be like the peppermint eggs that disappoint me.  Slightly bitter or tinged with sorrow or disappointment yet because of the outer coat of sweet chocolate, a reminder that the best is still to be.

Hopefully, some days will be almost saccharine in their perfection.  Yet, they to, will fade as the sun goes down, and another day promises to appear.  And like the tiny tray of eggs that will stay on my coffee table until Easter Sunday evening, I will look forward to the surprise, mystery and anticipation of what every day will bring.  Because I finally realize why the Duck Eggs were so important.  They represented far more than a special breakfast to an elderly gentleman.  They symbolized the rebirth of each day, and more importantly, eternal life in the world to come.