The Littlest Things

Sweet, sweet feelings

Tiny things.

They're everywhere. They make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Toy poodles. Daschunds. Babies (specifically their teeny tiny shoes). I’d even go as far as saying a model village has a certain emotive charm to it (albeit a slightly lame one). At Easter, we are graced with and overwhelmed by mini-joys: the tiny tips of new daffodils, wobbly lambs, baby chicks, bunny rabbits and my personal favourite, Mini Eggs.

Mini Eggs are the crack cocaine of Cadbury’s. A chocolate sphere encased in the almost-floury and saccharine taste of sugar-induced freedom. They can only exist in tiddly form. Can you imagine a scaled-up Mini Egg? They would just be call ‘Eggs’. Confusing. The thought alone is terrifying. Biting would be needed, teeth would be cracked and dentists would rub their hands as emergency clinics would see a record number of patients on Good Friday. No, no, these pellets of pleasure are to be enjoyed in miniature form in one fell swoop. No biting before entering the mouth allowed. Pop them like a prescription and use your self-awareness to measure your on-going glucose reaction (read: nausea). You'll probably overdo it; they are dangerously moreish.

I believe miniature chocolates are far superior to their full-sized equivalents. I'm a stickler for an original but not when it comes to Easter editions. Just as my yoga teacher has recently helped me realise: there is often gratification in modification.

Good things come in small packages. Things don’t need to be all-singing, all-dancing to bring an experience of joy. If something looks cute and has the historical credentials to back it up, often it is a good idea. (A mantra I apply to dating.) The simplest things in life are often the best. (A mantra I also apply to dating.) You can get as much pleasure, if not more, from micro-treats as you do from the full-sized thing. (This one definitely applies to dating.)

The bijoux Lindt Gold Bunny surpasses their larger parent origin: far cuter and structurally more sound. Plus, who actually wants to eat a chocolate rabbit worryingly close to real size? I’m not a vegan. I’m not a vegetarian. I’m not even an animal fanatic but I still find it weird having to decide whether I ingest the life-sized ears first, crack into the bum or break apart the torso to begin my treat time. Trying to split body parts between friends is irritating; somebody always gets short-changed. More importantly, it slows down consumption at the point I’m ready for a chocolate fix. Leave the cacao taxidermy. If you must eat a chocolate animal, get one small enough you can consume in a few bites. The larger ones give rise to depressing chocolate bunny shrapnel, left sad and alone in the aftermath of Easter chocolate overdose. The remnants attempt shelter til mid-May in their tired-looking gold foil blankets as they gather dust in the treat-drawer or chocolate tin. Eventually someone finds them, eats them and feels disappointed or chooses to throw them away. Woeful and wasteful.

Lindor miniature chocolate eggs are more elegant than their spherical Christmas counterparts. The line between melt-in-your-mouth and nausea with anything Lindor is very fine. The weensy version’s egg-shape adds a welcome uneven distribution of the rich filling versus the globe-like original. You can enjoy the pure craft of the Belgian chocolate without your tongue swimming in the almost-tickling, oil-based ganache with the egg edition. (I looked up the ingredients when writing this to discover a Lindor contains palm-oil and milk fat — I might be swerving those this year.)

Baby Creme Eggs are the epitome of tiny wonder. A fifty-fifty ratio of chocolate to filling. That’s the kicker. Mini Malteser bunnies work under the same pretence. Nobody needs the amount of sucrose spunk that comes in a full-size Creme Egg. It's sickly unless drizzled on a McFlurry (and even then, you'll struggle to finish it). The pregnant chalky belly of a Malteser bunny in its regular form can sometimes feel too much. Less is often more.

There is no need for further candy accessory or confectionary add-ons this bank holiday. You don’t need a grab-bag, a monster-bar or an up-scaled egg edition. Let’s face it, if you bed in to something super-sized you’ll often end up eating the whole thing in one sitting and you’ll hate yourself for it. All you need is one teensy chocolate treat resting on the side of your tea cup and it brings about a feeling of glee. There is nothing better than a little post-dinner treat in front of a good film for considered chewing and viewing.

Whilst they solve the sharing between friends problem, baby chocolates do require some work. They demand you decipher if you want one, two, four or ten. We periodically review our sacrificial sins to the chocolate gods when eating them. If you feel like you need to keep going, you have another; if you’ve reached the point of satisfaction, you stop. They are a more mindful way of snacking. They want you to listen to yourself. They expect you to be satisfied with something small. They’re adorable and they pine for you to savour the moment.

It may be my penchant for the dinky. It may be an appreciation of modification. Perhaps it's my desire to leave the filling and focus on solid chocolate but miniature treats remind me to make considered choices. They aren’t here all year-round. They’re seasonal, fleeting, transient. This is all part of their delectation. They remind us to cherish the morsels of joy which arise from the tiniest of moments in life.