Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Bunnies lay eggs on Easter


 Inside the house that Grandpa built, Easter day 2012

On Easter day, we visited my parents. They had hidden pastel-colored plastic eggs around the house.

They had held jellybean hunts for my brother and I. We had had fun. Much more fun than we had at the longer than usual mass with the priest sending plumes of acrid incense into the church's still air. Back at home, we whipped off our church clothes, put on jeans and began to seek the holiday's sweeter side - a basket of chocolate, marshmallow chicks, and Cadbury eggs. My parents always included one new book in the basket: Laura Ingalls Wilder books and Misty of Chincoteague and later the Nancy Drew or Sweet Valley High series.

Then began the hunt. My father always put the licorice jellybeans behind the rabbit figurines. As gourmet jellybeans became popular, the bunny figurines laying coffee or chocolate flavored jellybeans.

"Ha ha. The bunny laid an egg!" he'd laugh. Every Easter. Admittedly, it was funny. I'm smiling now.

My father, still gleeful about the holiday proceedings, coached his grandson, "Come on, Beren, do you see the egg? I see one. Over there. Come on."

Easter egg hunt

My mother pried open an egg to reveal what rattled inside: a few Pepperidge Farm goldfish crackers. My son became much more focused on the hunt, passing each egg to the nearest adult.

"MMMmmm," he said. Open this. Not fast enough. OPEN THIS. Salty crackers! OPEN OPEN.

My mother stated, "I've created a monster."

"MMMMMM!!"

"Oh no, I've created a monster," moaned my mother again.

For weeks hence our morning routine went like this:

I rose each day and began breakfast by cracking eggs into a hot, oily cast iron skillet that always sits on our stovetop. My son woke with the sounds of the day beginning, and ran into the kitchen. He pointed at the eggshells, "MMM MMM!"

I picked up my wildly gesturing son and carried him on my hip as I clumsily cracked another egg on the pan's edge. A yolk and white sizzled in the pan. My son pointed.

Where's the goldfish?

He soon forgot or became used to the inferior eggs his parents cracked into the hot pan each morning. He stopped pointing at the eggs. Until:

He tried a hardboiled egg and liked it. Pointing resumed.

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