Don't get me wrong, I like all sorts of Easter eggs. I'll even tolerate chocolate rabbits or bilbies, despite their distinct lack of egg shape. I love my Darrel Lea nougat eggs even though they're too flat on one side, as though the egg has been dropped. These eggs also make an appearance as Christmas puddings (surely not recycled with a layer of icing over an Easter egg), and are never, ever, refused by me.
But the Cadbury Creme Egg is top of the heap as far as I'm concerned. I won't admit to how many I ate in my recent holidays - suffice to say I definitely didn't lose weight. Perhaps they should be called obesity bombs, instead. But I don't care. Put one in front of me, and I'll eat it. I look forward to Easter all year, simply because I know Creme eggs will be on sale again.
To me, eating a Creme is an art, possibly a ritual, or, to be honest, an erotic experience. I remember describing enjoying a Creme egg to a friend once - her comment was "you make it sound erotic". She certainly had me pegged. There's the added benefit of being able to enjoy the experience in public, in private, with friends, or alone.
First, pick the one that hasn't leaked (and how disappointing is it to get you egg home to discover it's leaked, the wrapper is stuck to the chocolate, and the cremey goodness, just isn't "right"?), and carefully peel the wrapper, inhaling the escaping aromas as you do. Then, use your teeth to nibble off a thin layer of chocolate (from the skinny end) and start licking the chocolate until it melts in your mouth. Hold the egg by the base and spin the softened end between your lips and tongue - your lips, mouth and tongue will quickly become coated in sticky, sweet, perfection.
Eventually, and with a bit of teasing and encouraging nibbling, the chocolate will melt enough that the creme is released. Now the real fun begins. My tongue, already in ecstasy from the chocolate overdose, is further aroused, darting in and out of the creme, returning to the egg's rim for a bit of a lick. Not too fast, not too slow, but smooth and sweet. As I slowly devour the egg, the base gets softer, my fingers stickier and messier. Seeking that final release, my tongue delves deeper into the creme, lapping, lapping, teasing at the eggshell, until it's done, the creme absorbed, the shell melted in my mouth. Now I can just run my tongue around my mouth and reminisce. Bliss.
For some reason, as I lick my fingers, I feel like a smoke.