I got an egg for Easter.
One.
It was a prized and lovely Cadbury Creme Egg, Easter Egg.

Anyone who knows and loves me, will be fully aware of my deep feelings of adoration for Creme Eggs….I’m addicted, I think there might actually be crack cocaine in them.

The Netherlands doesn’t share my love and you can’t buy them here, so when we left the UK my addiction had to move on to something else.

My lovely husband bought it for me from ‘The English Store’ in Haarlem.
Because of the above statement.
And the husband brownie points it gained him.
And, I like to think, because he is a nice person.
But maybe it was just about one upmanship.

I don’t care.

I had a Cadbury Creme Egg, Easter Egg. The addiction was being fed. I was happy. And nicer to my kids as a result.

I was contentedly sitting in our garden on Easter Sunday, shovelling choccie egg into my face. I could hear my long suffering and very lovely neighbour pottering around in her garden. In the interests of being generous, I offered her a bit.

Now, my Dutch is at the ‘can communicate badly’ level.

Undeterred by my lack of linguistic talent, I held the chocolate out over the fence to my neighbour…..I had a half shell with some pieces of broken egg in the half-like a little bowl, all on the tin foil wrapper.

I said, “Fine Easter”.
She wished me the same.
I said, what I thought was, “Would you like a bit of my egg?” and held it out.
She said, “Lovely, thank you”
And took the whole lot.
She smiled down at it, wrapped it in the tin foil wrapper.
And started to go inside.

Hello?!
Egg-scuse me?!!!!

She took it all.
My egg!

MY EGG!!!

Feel free to fully cringe at how utterly awkward the situation was. I had obviously used all the wrong Dutch and told her to take it. But I didn’t have enough Dutch to explain to take a bit and give it back.

So I stood with my hand out.

Saying in Dutch in a high, nervy squeak, “A piece! A PIECE!!”

I was slightly panicked that she was taking my egg away. But also dying on the inside with how badly the conversation was turning out. I regretted attempting to being nice. I should have stuck with pure gluttony.

She stopped and looked at me.
It was uncomfortable.
I just stood there.
Mortified.
Hand over fence.
Desperate look on face.
I was getting cranky.
And anxious.
I was crankxious.
Babbling, quite possibly, meaningless Dutch gibber at her.
She came back to the fence.

Fully confused, she said slowly, “Do you want it back?”
She used her very-kind-special-needs-teacher-voice that she uses with my kids.
And she put the egg back in my hand.
Mother-of-the-sweet-holy-cringe.

I neurotically tried to explain.
“I like egg. Egg special. Egg is to have been bought by husband. Good day.”

She nodded and backed away from me.
I’m sure she wonders about my mental health.

I went inside to relay the tale to my husband.
When I told him, he shrieked with the shame of it all and said he would have let her have it…..then cried about it privately at home.
But it was MY EGG. I think I might have hopped over the fence and taken her down hard, if she’d not given it back.

But now she just thinks I’m a basket case over chocolate.
And suffer from chronic social malfunction.
She may have a point.

Or maybe I’m just a bit egg-centric….

 

Photo by Laurentiu Iordache on Unsplash

I was born in Ireland, grew up in England and met my Cornish husband in Catalonia. We now live in the Netherlands, in Dutch suburbia with our two differently wired, small kids. I spend my days parenting, writing and being amazed at all the Dutchness around me.

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