They call to me from behind their cellophane wall. Little confectionary animals beg to jump into my watering mouth. What other time of year is such a struggle, healthfully speaking, than the Easter season; the time of the Peeps? Little pieces of brightly colored marshmallow delicacy delivered only in the spring. I know you can buy them other times of the year but this is a marketing ploy unsuccessful in my opinion. Peeps just don’t taste the same at Christmas. They are the bonne bouche of my Easter basket.
There’s something about sinking your teeth through the sugary skin into the lifeless animal bodies, ripping them apart with bare teeth or even swallowing them whole that makes the extra workouts so worthwhile. I would never intentionally turn down a bunny shaped Peep but I prefer the little birdies. There’s something about the bunnies-maybe it’s the limbs. Some have arms and legs-who wants to eat an anatomically correct Peep?
I know some don’t have the refined palate required to appreciate the taste of the mass produced pure sugar delicacy. In fact, after the first Peep, I don’t recall a particular taste at all. It’s just the anticipated nectar high and zest for sugar coated birds that trigger the Pavlovian reaction.
I have been known to secretly eat an entire package of Peeps at one time. My family refused to speak to me after that incident on account of my drastic sugar high. I not only spoke loudly and at mach speed but I actually launched into Urdu at one point.
Now I pace myself. One Peep at a time. Slow and steady. Keep the blood sugar levels out of six digits. But of course, like the Israelites wandering in the wilderness, I know that the manna from heaven will one day be gone, so I’m tempted to horde the billowy desserts.
In a few days they will be gone, wiped from the store shelves, remembered only by my too tight jeans. To stem the tide of desire until next season, my obsession will turn to other dainty indulgences, like Milk Duds.
