A confession

Okay, I'll admit it. Like I told Perpetualchocoholic, I had a brief period of insanity when I contemplated using Ritz crackers in the eggs rather than the traditional chocolate. In fact, it was a bad idea from the very beginning.

I started my Easter shopping last Thursday; in my opinion, it was a week too late. The scene in the Easter aisle of my local supermarket was chaotic, if not just plain scary. The faintest whiff of chocolate does the strangest thing to some people. Women, or what appeared to be women, eyed each other warily and snarled under their breath as they passed each other in the nearly empty chocolate aisle.

Finally, I saw what I wanted; the much coveted malted Easter eggs. With Seth in tow, and Robert clutching the sides of the shopping cart, I dodged through a sea of arms and legs before reaching my goal. Only one bag left, I gloated, reaching for it. “It’s mine!” a voice hissed in my ear. Slowly, I turned and saw the tallest woman I had ever seen in my life. Her hair stuck out, as if someone had tried to yank out by the roots. To this day, I swear her eyes blazed a fiery red, and flecks of foam dotted the corners of her mouth. I gulped, nodded, and took off down the aisle.

“I don’t need chocolate bad enough to die for it,” I told Seth.

“But what about the eggs? What will we put in the eggs?” he whined.

“I’ll think of something.” As I turned down the snack aisle, the box of dinosaur shaped Ritz crackers caught my eye. Hmm. Low fat and good for you? It will be a nice change, I thought, throwing the box into the cart.

“You’re not using those little crackers, are you?” Seth asked. I said nothing and steered the cart toward the checkout. “Oh no way! That’s lame!” he howled. All the way home, the mood was mutinous. Seth glared out the window and refused to speak.

Like I said in an earlier, my husband, driven by some unknown force, brought home the chocolate. Oh, it was tempting! The Reese’s sat round and cool in their bag, the M&Ms sat silently in theirs, both waiting for a trembling pair of feminine hands to rip open their bags and dive in.


Ummm. The first whiff of chocolate is always the best. It beckons to me as the sultry sirens beckoned to the hapless Greek sailors. Yes, I am a chocoholic, but I come by it honestly.

My mother is the guilty party. She started me on it at an early age, and I’ve been hooked ever since. This past weekend, I opened a cabinet door in the kitchen, and found several bags of chocolate candy. “What’s this?” I asked, motioning at her stash.

“Oh that,” Mama laughed, crossing her arms across her slender form. ‘That’s for whenever I feel down.”
“You must feel down quite a lot,” I quipped, eyeing the candy. Would you believe my remark didn’t score me one bag of candy? All it got me was a smirk and a playful swat on the backside.

The box of Ritz sits alone on my pantry shelf, where I’m sure it will sit for a few months before my boys become desperate and consume it too. If my candy scenario happens again next year, maybe I’ll follow the playful advice of Nankin and dip Ritz in chocolate. Maybe I can pass the dinosaurs off as super bunnies; anything is worth a try.