Easter last year was dinner with
(full-grown) family then a midnight flight to Nicaragua. This year is
a little different, in one very large (and very small) way.
A small smile keeps coming back as I
remember my own childhood Easters. Putting hard-boiled eggs in copper
wire holders, and lowering them into dye that will forever come to
mind when I smell vinegar. Then hunting for those eggs in my
grandparents' backyard (there was always one hidden by the frog
fountain) before a big British brunch where we consumed far more
cholesterol than would be permitted nowadays.
In Belgium the eggs are chocolate, and
finding them was a no-nonsense pursuit for the day's red-cheeked
focal point, who went about the task with meticulous care and
stalwart enthusiasm. (Suddenly I suspect she is an old soul who still
holds pagan fertility symbols to be serious business.)
We also, appropriately enough, are
taking care of the neighbors' pet for a week while they go skiing.
The pet? A rabbit. Delivered the day before Easter. “Kijk! Een
konijntje!”
A very happy Easter and/or Eostre Day
to all of you.
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