It’s the first time in the history of Easter dinners that we’ve spent more of it outside than in. We have several friends, none of whom have family in the area, with whom we often celebrate holidays. Typically we all gather with our winter coats on to watch the kids find their eggs and then either pretend it’s warmer than it really is by staying outside with our shoulders hunched and our hands in our armpits, or giving up to rush back inside because it’s even too cold to pretend.
This year? Bliss! Sun shining on our faces, children running barefoot in the green grass, music, such good food and, of course the Easter cake. The cake itself is a tradition as is the conversation and discussion that surrounds the cake. Apparently, it is a childhood memory for one of our friends, but as memories are faulty and the ability of wives to recreate what a sainted mother made, well, less than perfect. Which of course it is because no one can meet the rosy expectations of a dreamy childhood memory. The cake itself is supposed to resemble an egg. It requires some construction, and here in lies where the “conversation” happens.
“How does it go together again?”
“Not like that!”
“Mama, you aren’t doing it right!”
“Okay, you do it.”
“No. The parents are supposed to put it together and then the children come to decorate.”
Just press play to repeat the five to ten minute conversation on a yearly basis. I was trying to explain to E how it goes and I just couldn’t do it justice. And then it happened. Just like clockwork and there was such a sense of rightness about the whole thing. It felt like putting on a cosy pair of slippers after a long summers break. Like catching a whiff of my childhood home or my mom’s cooking. Rightness.
Oh, and I should tell you that the column ran today – using up leftover lamb from Easter dinner to make lamb meatballs. Of course you can use freshly ground lamb as well.
Blown eggs on our egg tree.
In the sun. Sigh.
Hunting for eggs.
The famous Easter cake.
Cutting the cake by Ms. “I hate blogs” Cindy.