Eau de Melamine

The lost sense of Easter

Such a treat. Such a treasure. The much-anticipated chocolate Easter egg of my childhood. Covered in shiny foil. Falling cleanly in two halves. Hemispheres of heaven, filled with Smarties, Buttons or Tooty Frooties. Sometimes, my dad upped the ante and bought a Dairy Box version with grown-up chocolates inside. And how daring that there was no prescribed way to eat it. That you could dive in freestyle, breaking it as you pleased. Some shards, if they came from the central seam, were thick, while those snapped from the centre of the dome were wafer thin. I thought this confection of contrasts more miraculous than anything Fabergé could have fashioned.

In fact, I considered myself quite the connoisseur. I was never a fan of the Cadbury Creme egg. I know. Radical. Partly because it seemed several degrees sweeter than liquidised candy floss but mainly because the yellow ‘yolk’ didn’t appear to taste any different to the white bit, which I thought was a swizz. I preferred Mackintosh’s Toffee Filled Eggs in a box of eight, each containing the most tongue-tantalising caramel ever invented.

I loved the Easters of yesteryear, mainly because they didn’t start with the appearance of hot cross buns around January 2nd. In those days, the baked treats were simply fruited, spiced and glossy. Now, there’s something of a bunfight going down, with stores trying to outdo each other with outlandish additions. According to one supermarket, that’s because the hot cross bun is ‘having a moment in 2022’. Funny because I thought they’d been having a moment for quite some time, from pagan spring festivals to Christian celebrations. So apologies if I can’t warm to adding chocolate, caramelised onion, cheddar cheese or Marmite to the mix. After all, many people see the simple flour and water strips that overlie the top as a symbol of the crucifixion of Christ. Now, it’s more like a signal for the showstopper round of the Great British Bake Off.

For me, the start of Easter was marked by attending the Palm Sunday service as a young Brownie. I loved being handed that small palm cross because it had a texture quite unlike any other plant that grew in Acacia Avenue. I duly imagined they’d been brought in baskets by donkeys from the Holy Land. Well, certainly somewhere farther afield than Guildford.

These days, lots of us use the Easter break to migrate to exotic climes. My family did much the same. We took our maroon Wolseley to a caravan park in Bognor Regis. We’d pack the car and take buttered Jacobs Cream Crackers for the trip (just about the most crumb-making, thirst-inducing snack you could possible rustle up for a journey). Our seasonal prayer was that the fan belt would hold up for the Chichester Bypass.

Oh the joy of arrival. For there she was, a white and pistachio green caravan. When we opened the door, my nose was greeted with truly one of the most exciting scents of my life. I can almost smell it now. Eau de Melamine, emitting from just about every cheaply constructed interior surface, mingling with mustinessaand baked by the sun in what was essentially an airless tin can. Only now do I realised it was probably formaldehyde.

We paddled in freezing water, feeling the waves wash over our toes then tugging sand back beneath our feet. We bought paper flags to stick in sandcastles and windmill on sticks that whirled with a frenzy. Trains passed the caravan site and every morning, my dad would take me to wave to the driver, who always waved back.

In the evenings, we’d visit the onsite club where the children were encouraged to sing ‘If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands’, especially if they clearly weren’t happy and had no intention of showing it. Then, when I was older we danced to ‘Tie a yellow ribbon round the ole oak tree’, which I enjoyed, even though I could never understand why the bloke who sang it was called Dawn.

Those Easter holidays always served as a fresh start. When we got back home, our semi seemed positively palatial. You didn’t have to pump a handle to flush the loo. The garden was lush and I knew it would soon be warm enough for the serious fun to begin…jumping through the sprinkler in a swimming costume.

Even these days, I much prefer Easter to Christmas. You still get time off but gatherings are more casual. There are no presents to buy. No cards to write. Less pressure to enjoy yourself, so you tend to enjoy yourself more. A better chance of sunshine. And if it rains, nature still flutters its daffodil flags like seasonal bunting. But oh, what I’d give for a Mackintosh’s toffee egg right now. Not too soft. Not too hard. Like most simple pleasures, just right.