I like Easter. The very thought brings back happy recollections of my two young children hunting for Easter eggs or coloring them. But every year one huge dilemma cropped up. What to do with all those dang hardboiled eggs?
My children are grown, so I’m not doing the egg thing anymore, but it once was a big deal. I’d buy a Paas Easter Egg Coloring Kit, boil up a big batch of eggs, set up the kitchen table with the paraphernalia of cups, spoons and paper towels, and the kids had a blast dyeing eggs.
The upshot of our manic egg coloring session was a huge pile of pink, green and yellow eggs – and a few purple brown duds – the result of color experimentation. We’d proudly display them in a big basket filled with green cellophane grass. It all looked very pretty.
But Easter Monday when I tried to send those lovely hard-boiled eggs in school lunches, my children didn’t want to munch them, they only wanted to color them. Somewhere in the weeks following Easter, I was always forced to throw former Easter eggs—now rotten eggs—into the garbage.
A mother can make only so much potato salad and so many egg salad sandwiches before she has a rebellion on her hands.
Easter has a few drawbacks. The weather can be quirky and, in this northern part of the world, downright cold. If this is your first Easter in Cook County, don’t plan on wearing spring-like finery unless you’re willing to cover your lightweight dress with a parka and replace your strappy high heels with Sorels.
Spring-like weather can happen, but don’t count on it. One Easter Sunday, many years ago, I actually sunbathed on Devil Track Lake. The thermometer climbed to an astounding 80 degrees so I propped a lawn chair in the snow and caught some rays. Of course, I was forced to wear Sorels in order to walk out on the lake, but I didn’t care.
Most Easters have not been that nice. My children assumed that everyone around the world wore stocking caps and mittens on Easter egg hunts. They knew the Easter Bunny wore long underwear when he visited this neck of the woods. I also recall getting stuck in the snow at the old Maple Hill Church where I had gone because I thought a sunrise service would be a lovely way to celebrate the renewal of life and spring.
Easter Sunday is the official proclamation of the new season. Once it arrives, I know spring is really here. It doesn’t matter that the snow lies deep in my garden — even as I write this. It doesn’t matter that nights are still cold and frosty. Easter will soon be here, and that thought brings spring to my heart.
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