When I was a kid, chocolate usually came with some kind of regulatory statement: “you can have some if you finish your dinner”, or “don’t eat it all at once”. But at Easter, that went out the window. The amount of chocolate I ate then is barely believable.
Now that adult me is making the decisions, I can eat chocolate whenever I want, with the fervour of an unaccompanied labrador in a pet food shop. But it’s rarely at Easter. Sadly, now I think of Easter as culinary enshittification. I imagine waxy chocolates making my fingers oily, compound chocolate (like regular chocolate but with more oil in it) that tastes like a patty of melted marshmallows, and unidentifiable cream fillings that ooze like sunscreen.
