Sunday, April 9, 2023

First Off. . . .

I've never been a fan of Easter.  I've said it before.  It is pastel.  I prefer the darker colors of autumn holidays.  Easter eggs.  Never a fan.  We'd boil them and paint them, and the next day they would hide them around the yard and we were supposed to find them.  Hillbillies and crackers that we were, then we'd eat them, along with the basketful of cheap candies lying in weirdly green plastic grass.  Jelly beans.  Little foil chocolate easter eggs.  In the center, a big, hollow chocolate rabbit that tasted like plastic.  Some of you probably had peeps.  There wasn't a kid in the neighborhood who didn't feel like shit that night.  We were all addicted, though, rotten-tooth little bastards that we were.  Sometimes we had to dress up in ties and jackets and go to church.  That was the worst.  I never looked forward to Easter.  

Yesterday I went to buy a roast but saw none that appealed to me.  I asked the butcher to cut me a three pound sirloin tip roast which he was happy to do.  After seasoning it, I will brown it in the enameled cast iron Dutch oven, then add potatoes, onions, carrots, and wine and stick it in the oven at 425 degrees until done.  Green beans.  Apple pie.  My mother and maybe others.  

The day is grey and predicted to be wet.  I fed the cat raw halibut because I am out of cat food.  She seemed to like it plenty, so she's had her Easter dinner already.  I am digitizing old 8mm film, and today will run some of the reels through the projector for mom.  She will have to explain some of what is there to me.  If she remembers.  

I've bought no Easter baskets, no flowers, no presents.  This used to dismay an old girlfriend who was used to getting Cartier eggs on Easter, I think.  The best I ever did were baskets made up by Williams and Sonoma.  They were the best Easter things I ever had, but they won me no points as I recall.  Well. . . my mother liked it.  I probably should have gotten a basket from Williams and Sonoma yesterday.  All the things I forgot to do will haunt me on my deathbed, I am certain.  Sins of omission I think they are called. Maybe not.  

We are hillbillies, though, my mother and I.  We don't expect fancy things.  We will be very grateful for a good meal and expensive wine.  We will never miss those things we never had.  

We only regret the things we've lost.  

Happy Easter to you, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.  

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