Easter blows

On Friday night Dan and I went out for Latin fare at a restaurant in Portsmouth and had drinks afterward at a wine bar overlooking the harbor. A few cocktails in me by the time we got home, it was inevitable that at the night's end we were going to get down and dirty...blowing Easter eggs. Having seen the idea in the Food Network Magazine, Dan (nicknamed "Danny Crocker" by brother-in-law Pete) decided he wanted to hollow out the eggs and stick little scrolled clue notes inside them from the Easter Bunny which would lead Molly to her basket when she woke up Sunday morning at my parents' house where we all spent the day. On Thursday night Dan dyed 'em and on Friday we blew 'em. Using a small screwdriver he tapped small holes into each end of the raw eggs and then we put our mouths on one hole and blew the innards out the other. (He tried using a can of duster but the pressure broke the eggs open.) At first the egg whites just slowly dribbled out but a large puff eventually shot the thick yellow yolk through the tiny hole and into the sink. (To which Dan replied, "Now tickle it and cuddle." I know, how could we destroy the solemnity of the Easter egg tradition? I'm pretty sure blowing your first egg is a sacrament though.)

The egg hunt Easter morning was a huge success and then some. For better or for worse (depending on whether you're his niece or his wife), Dan's head works like that of a seven-year-old so he is the master of all things Easter Bunny and has been performing E.B. duties since his niece and nephew, now 12 and 14, were of believing age. Bec told us that leading up to Easter Mol had been telling anyone who would listen about the riddle that the Easter Bunny (Dan) left for her last year so Dan wanted to up his game this time around. The result was the best Easter morning egg hunt I've ever witnessed. It had Molly retrieving the fragile eggs, cracking them in a tub gleefully, unrolling the tiny pieces of paper, reading the clues aloud and then running off to find the next egg. One egg was taped to the bottom of the kitchen table, another was inside the pocket of her jean jacket, two eggs even had her running outside and the excitement escalated to such a point that an actual squeal of delight rang through the house when she finally found her basket---heaven in purple cellophane, this basket Bec made up---in the bathtub.

The kids aren't the only ones to benefit from Danny Wonka's skills. Years ago (and there is video footage of this somewhere that I MUST find), Cherie, Katie and I practically wrestled each other down as we dove for hidden plastic eggs while participating in one of Dan's hunts. (A clue which read, "Look to Mao for what you seek" had Katie climbing---and breaking---a book shelf to retrieve an egg hidden behind a Mao Tse-tung biography.) And this past Saturday before we headed down to RI, Dan set up an egg hunt in our apartment which had me running from room to room and eventually led to a hidden stash of all my favorite treats: Milk Duds, Cadbury Mini Eggs, Hostess Cupcakes, Haribo Gummy Bears, packs of gum, etc. (All but the gummy bears have since been hidden again for the health of the nation.) Dan's been making me Easter Baskets and egg hunts for years. Though the last thing I need two months before summer is a cache of sugar and chocolate (which is at this very moment emitting low-frequency cocoa vibrations from wherever it is hidden insde my home), this is a step up from past basket fillers which have included, I kid you not, Preparation-H wipes and a book titled "Lose Your Belly!"

Romantic, I know.

Easter is not the biggest whoop of a holiday to me (I, in fact, was initially opposed to the plan of gathering at my parents' home because of the risk to my mom's immune system) but this year's was actually pretty low-key and thus pretty wonderful. I relaxed on a hammock in the sun down by the river, I watched my three-year-old nephew hook a basket half his size over his arm and run along a green lawn in search of eggs, I went for a walk with my sister, brother-in-law and nieces Sammy and Molly, and I sat for an hour in an Adirondack chair chatting with 15-year-old Sammy about life and remembered how smart 15 can be. (Even though we quite enjoy our teenaged nieces and nephew, Dan and I have now graduated to the I-hate-teenagers-at-the-movies phase of life so it was good to be reminded how insightful a person can be at 15.) In the end (provided that my mom doesn't get sick as a result of all the company), I'm glad I was voted down on the Easter front and we did gather. My mom was the one who pushed for it despite my worries. "I have to live," she said.

Chemo this Friday. Keep thinking that way, ma.