Good Friday. A day of solemnity and fasting for my husband's family.
For the Hinkletown crowd it was a different matter. I guess there may have been services at one time, but I don't remember them. For us, the afternoon meant, covering the versatile kitchen table (we did so many, many things on that table in addition to eating!) with newspapers. Mother had been busy hard-cooking dozens of eggs. We had been busy fastidiously twisting just the right amount of cotton around toothpicks. Then came the cupcake tin and little bottles of dye were poured into the cup forms. Creativity unleashed!
It all started slowly, amid the smell of eggs and vinegar. Delicate shades, intricate patterns, attempts at flowers, crosses, words.... but as time went on and all the dyes got muddy, we went for broke, painting over the delicateness - any white spot was fair game in the end frenzied burst of mixed colors.
The resplendent eggs rested in a bowl lined with green plastic grass in the frig. I supposed we ate them in the days that followed, but I think in general our interest in them at that point was nil.
But it was another notch of tradition on that glorious childhood belt.
No comments:
Post a Comment