There is something faintly revealing about Easter morning, particularly when it comes to chocolate, because however one has approached Lent, the moment of unwrapping tends to expose one’s true character with surprising clarity.
The composed individual, for instance, will unwrap a single, rather elegant egg (possibly dark chocolate) and proceed with admirable restraint, breaking off neat hexagonal pieces one at a time. It is almost as if they feel that moderation were still vaguely required, even on Easter Sunday, and one suspects they will mention, at some point, that they “don’t really have a sweet tooth,” while continuing, quite steadily, to savor every morsel.
At the other end, there is the enthusiast, who has clearly prepared for this moment in advance and sees no reason to wait for breakfast. The foil is ripped off in seconds as they dive into their chocolate with a generosity of spirit that suggests Lent has been endured with patience and is now being properly concluded, ideally before lunch.
Somewhere in between is the quiet grazer, who insists chocolate is not their favourite sweet treat, and yet, throughout the morning, the chocolate supply slowly disappears, to the point where even a delicious Easter lunch begins to feel faintly ambitious.
That poor bunny...
And of course, there are those who go straight for the attack of that poor chocolate bunny that never stood a chance. These no-mercy munchers have the efficiency of someone who sees no point in delay! But then there are those less heartless fellows who nibble their way down more cautiously, carefully maintaining a certain symmetry as they go. However, when they reach the face, the whole thing begins to feel faintly unkind, if not just slightly tinged with a familiar sense of guilt.
What makes all of this more than mildly entertaining is the fact that the chocolate itself has not changed in the slightest, and yet the experience of it clearly has, because Easter has a way of altering the context in which even the smallest pleasures are received.
After weeks in which something has been given up, whether faithfully or with a certain creative interpretation (cough, cough, very creative in my case!), the return of sweetness feels less like indulgence and more like permission, as though joy had been waiting patiently and is now, quite reasonably, making itself known.
Catholic life understands this rhythm rather well, moving as it does from the restraint of Lent to the unmistakable lift of Easter morning, when Alleluia returns and even the ordinary seems to carry a little more weight, not because it has changed, but because we are finally ready to receive it.
Which is perhaps why Easter chocolate matters more than it should, not as chocolate, but as a small, foil-wrapped sign that joy has returned and need not be managed quite so carefully.
And so, whether you approach it with elegance, enthusiasm, or complete lack of strategy, you are, in your own way, doing exactly the right thing, which is to receive Easter as it is given — generously, gratefully -- and, if we are honest, with very little intention of making it last.
