When I was a kid, Easter was a lot of work. We'd get these big baskets of candy, and when you're a kid, eating candy is like your job. There'd be the chocolate bunny, which was fine--even if it wasn't actually chocolate. The standard Palmer bunny, for example (Busy Bigby, Li'l Traveller, Sunshine, etc.) lists "chocolate" as the third or fourth ingredient, so it's really chocolate-flavored. The jelly beans were okay, too, except for the disgusting ones--always the pink ones, and sometimes the purple, sometimes the white ones: Yuck. Fruit or "spice," which were better? I think spice jelly beans were marginally better in that they had fewer gross flavors. Sometimes you'd find another kid who would trade you the disgusting pink ones for the delicious, best black ones, but you couldn't count on that.
Then there were the hideous so-called marshmallow eggs: brightly colored, with a firm sugar crust and nasty chewy white sugary stuff inside. It wasn't so much the bland, too-sweet taste that was revolting as it was the texture. And always the inexplicable Peeps. Fun to blow up in the microwave, but eating them--not so much. But if you were a kid, you had to eat it all. Did you start with the most disgusting candy first, the marshmallow eggs, and save the excellent malted-milk-ball eggs for last? Or did you gobble all the chocolate first and work your way through the stale Peeps over the course of the following week? After careful analysis, I worked out a complicated formula wherein I alternated the disgusting jelly bean flavors with the good ones, so that I managed to get through the nasty ones and finish up with a burst of black jelly beans, my favorites.
I was thinking over the weekend that I hadn't seen marshmallow eggs in quite some time. "Good! Now I don't have to eat them," I thought. Then I realized that I never had to eat them: I could have just thrown them away, or given them to my little sister or something. But that never occurred to me when I was little. I had my candy, and I had to eat it.
Sluggo tells me that he used to get so upset when he'd come home from school and find the Huckleberry Hound show on TV. He despised Huckleberry Hound, but it was a cartoon show and he was a kid: He had to watch it. He would sit there vibrating with rage, forced by societal expectations to endure that stupid animated dog. It was a job.
That's why it's good to be an adult. You can watch 137-episode Korean Broadcasting System historical costume dramas and eat chocolate-covered espresso beans and go to bed with your clothes on and drink champagne and do pretty much anything you want.
Thanks for reading my blog post this time, and may God bless.