Ah, those China Easter eggs. Beautifully coloured in soft pastel combinations with a fancy edge of icing denoting the half. Adorned with icing flowers in pinks, mauves and lemons and stems of soft greens, they were definitely the Easter eggs for girls. Too delicate to eat, they would last for weeks until the temptation became too much.
This was only part of the most pleasant memories of visiting my grandparents during the famous Bendigo Easter Fair.
How to eat those china eggs was a challenge in itself. Taste buds would eventually champion over sentiment. A gentle tap of the moulded egg against a permanent fixture usually had no reaction whatsoever. A little more force required. A hard bang against the porcelain kitchen sink would not even create a crack in the surface of the egg, though I suspect the porcelain could have been affected!
I remember inability to break the egg into lady-like portions giving way to impatience. The decorative flowers on the top of the egg were smaller and separate from the original mould and appeared to be more obtainable. A sharp knife would be used in an attempt to prise the petals, which apparently had been glued on to the egg with Tarzan's Grip.
Resorting to a dental attack--teeth could not budge the dainty little flowers, even licking the petals did not deliver the sweetness expected, but rather tasted like a bland, cold stone.
I recall my dear old grandfather suggesting a fairly clean roofing nail and a hammer may be the only way to crack the edible egg, While I tentatively held an egg on its side, my grandfather summed up the plan of attack. "I'll whack it right in the middle" he said as he delivered a hearty blow.
The egg cracked! Another hearty blow and two bite size pieces of the beautiful egg were mine!
Greedily, I remember popping the first piece in my mouth. All the expectations of a taste of the long awaited Easter treat came to a disappointing end. Although I had never tasted bone china, I felt I was sampling a piece of a prized dinner set. I could not bite or chew the offending morsel.
What did one do, when one was supposed to be grateful for the efforts of an enterprising grandfather?
With a fixed smile and a bulging mouth I wandered outside to the back verandah, adorned with an age old grapevine, where a long used milk can held wheat and a dipper for feeding the chooks. With a steady aim I spat the remnants of the china egg into the wheat container. With child like knowledge, I felt the chooks would benefit with this addition to their diet, strengthening the shells of their eggs.
My grandfather never commented on the chooks and their eggs that Easter, but for the many Easters that followed I was grateful for the chocolate Easter eggs, wrapped in coloured foil, that satisfied the taste buds and could be eaten in small portions or all at once, without intervention.
This was only part of the most pleasant memories of visiting my grandparents during the famous Bendigo Easter Fair.
How to eat those china eggs was a challenge in itself. Taste buds would eventually champion over sentiment. A gentle tap of the moulded egg against a permanent fixture usually had no reaction whatsoever. A little more force required. A hard bang against the porcelain kitchen sink would not even create a crack in the surface of the egg, though I suspect the porcelain could have been affected!
I remember inability to break the egg into lady-like portions giving way to impatience. The decorative flowers on the top of the egg were smaller and separate from the original mould and appeared to be more obtainable. A sharp knife would be used in an attempt to prise the petals, which apparently had been glued on to the egg with Tarzan's Grip.
Resorting to a dental attack--teeth could not budge the dainty little flowers, even licking the petals did not deliver the sweetness expected, but rather tasted like a bland, cold stone.
I recall my dear old grandfather suggesting a fairly clean roofing nail and a hammer may be the only way to crack the edible egg, While I tentatively held an egg on its side, my grandfather summed up the plan of attack. "I'll whack it right in the middle" he said as he delivered a hearty blow.
The egg cracked! Another hearty blow and two bite size pieces of the beautiful egg were mine!
Greedily, I remember popping the first piece in my mouth. All the expectations of a taste of the long awaited Easter treat came to a disappointing end. Although I had never tasted bone china, I felt I was sampling a piece of a prized dinner set. I could not bite or chew the offending morsel.
What did one do, when one was supposed to be grateful for the efforts of an enterprising grandfather?
With a fixed smile and a bulging mouth I wandered outside to the back verandah, adorned with an age old grapevine, where a long used milk can held wheat and a dipper for feeding the chooks. With a steady aim I spat the remnants of the china egg into the wheat container. With child like knowledge, I felt the chooks would benefit with this addition to their diet, strengthening the shells of their eggs.
My grandfather never commented on the chooks and their eggs that Easter, but for the many Easters that followed I was grateful for the chocolate Easter eggs, wrapped in coloured foil, that satisfied the taste buds and could be eaten in small portions or all at once, without intervention.
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