SUCCESS! #chickisback. I’m heartened to discover that Darrell Lea have come to their senses and have reinstated the chick. All is now well with the world.
For the committed choc-whore like myself, there’s no day like Easter Sunday to act like a total cocoa-slut.
You know full well that your day is going to start, and hopefully end, not necessarily in a sexy way, with chocolate.
That Easter Sunday morning chocolate high does not come courtesy of a choc-filled croissant, oh no, that’s far too classy and European for me, I just want what I’ve always wanted. A Darrell Lea nougat egg.
When I was a kid I lived only a few chocolate blocks away from the Darrell Lea factory in Kogarah. We used to sit on the hill next to the Chinese Gardens in Scarborough Park watching the trucks bring in the sugar, and later leave with their axles dragging on the ground, weighed down with the sweet burden of Easter.
On Easter Sunday we’d awaken to a mound of chocolates at the end of our bed. All the piles, thanks to some brilliant forethought from my parents, would be identical and nearly always contained a gender correct, blue-boxed nougat filled egg. We guarded our eggs like broody hens, snapping at any attempts by our siblings to thieve any part of that overly sweet concoction.
We’d sit up in bed sampling our selection and wondering just why, considering that Easter Eggs come from rabbits, Darrell Lea popped a ridiculous, yet cute, fluffy yellow chicken atop each one.
When my toast-eating heretic of a wife tossed my – blue for boy – Darrell Lea nougat filled easter egg box at me on Sunday morning, I knew, or at least I thought I knew, that all was good in the world.
What struck me though was that under the new ownership by a pet food company, Darrell Lea is doing some serious rebranding. The box, although still gender correct – we all know if I ate one out of a pink box I’d suddenly be able to have a phone conversation and discover just how enjoyable shopping for shoes actually is – was now larger than before, but what perturbed me most, inside the box, sat a gold bag.
It used to be that the Uluru shaped egg would be foil wrapped and perched upon it would be the yellow fluffy chick, totally out of proportion considering the size of the egg, but there it was, eyes askew just waiting to be flicked on to the ground for the cat to play with.
The chick though is no more. I’d hoped it was choking for air inside the foil sarcophagus but no, it was gone, cast aside by a ruthless company that no doubt rounded up all the chicks, force fed them until their livers exploded and processed them into one of those Cat Mince Pouches.
No doubt those fluffy birds were costing Darrell Lea a fortune, as did having one roll of blue foil and one of pink for the eggs, and cutting them out doubtless had the sugar-boosted accountants holding their hands in the air, just like the birds they’d made extinct, but until that cock-eyed yellow chick reappears, peeking out from within a gender neutral box, I’ll be supping on another delight, maybe even a chocolate filled croissant.