Mar 24, 2016 4 min read

It’s time to consider the chocolate bunny. Easter is almost here, and as I head out to the store to get some goodies, I’m thinking about the tradition of the Easter basket, and what it means to me.

Unlike most women, I do not pine for chocolate. I have friends who hide Milky Way and Snickers bars in drawers and cabinets around the house – their own secret emergency stash – but I would not go searching for a chocolate bar. But give me a hint that some gummy bears or Starburst are lurking, and I will commit whatever time it takes to hunt them down, break the code on the lock and gobble them until my jaw hurts.

I get my candy gene from the chewy-fruity-sour wing of the family tree. My mom, whose nickname is Dot, always did like the candy of the same name. And while I would choose a box of fruity, colorful Dots over, say, a box of Goobers (chocolate-covered peanuts) any day, Dots are not my favorite in the genre. They are too sweet.

This brings me to the Easter basket and the treasures that lie within. Upon approach, one first sees the large items, usually a tall rabbit wrapped in foil. Although I probably won’t eat it, I pick it up to determine if it’s solid or hollow. The chocolate bunnies of my childhood were mostly hollow: we would bite off the ears and feel the head and bow tie collapse into shards.

That’s OK, I didn’t like chocolate then, either.

Next in the basket is the row of little yellow marshmallow peeps. Cute, but no. Even as a kid, I thought they were too airy, too mushy and too sweet.

The only good marshmallow peep is a stale marshmallow peep. If freed from the plastic and left to dry for a few days, the peeps take on a hard chewiness that compensates for the sweetness. The trick is to hide them so they survive the family looters long enough to get stale.

Next we arrive in the basket items that are novelties – Pez dispensers and lollipops and round containers with tapes of chewing gun. That’s kid’s stuff, and I push it aside to get to the real business.

It’s time to dive into the shiny blue grass. My fingers rake through to unearth the real reason we’re here: the jellybeans and the Skittles! Oh, how I love the Skittles! Everybody loves the Skittles.

But back to the jellybeans. There are two kinds: the fat ones and the vastly superior small ones. The fat ones are spice flavored, come in big plastic bags with generic names and are so inexpensive you can get about 100 pounds for a penny.

They are space holders in the basket, and nobody really eats them.

The ones I go diving for are the little ones, which are fruity and tart and have a bit more “give” when you bite into them. Sadly, everybody likes the small beans the best, and you have to get up very early Easter morning if you want to harvest them.

I’ve heard there are people who prefer the fat jellybeans, but I’ve never met one. They certainly aren’t in my family.

The perfect family would have a couple of people who love chocolate but dislike fruity-chewy and a couple of people who love the opposite. And one person who loves only the spicy beans.

And then with Easter morning bellies round and full, everybody could fight over the Skittles.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.