Memories Of Eggs And Candy

THE PREP WORK:

The smell of vinegar inundates the kitchen. Originating from bowls of different colored solutions arranged in the same sequence as a rainbow, the containers are prepped and ready for the arrival of yet to cool eggs. This is the only time of year vinegar elicits a positive response from kids.

The table is protected by an old towel because no matter how careful we are, inevitably, someone will bump into the workspace while trying to pull his or her chair closer. This causes mini tsunamis on the surface of each vessel. Any spillage leaves a Rorschach pattern on the absorbent cloth under the bath nearest the epicenter.

There is the required modification to the wire holder included with the PAAS kit since the manufacturer specs are insufficient. The dipping end loop needs enlarging to securely hold our egg in its selected position, whether vertical or tilted. Only one catastrophic incident involving an egg that should be partially dunked but ends up toppling over and getting fully submerged, or worse yet, Humpty Dumptying onto the table, is needed for Dad to examine the problem and re-engineer a solution. Sure, “Build a better mousetrap and the world will beat a path to your door.” But “Construct a better dipper and the egg won’t roll onto your floor.”

Everyone fancies themselves the next Rembrandt, Picasso or Warhol when it comes to decorating their Easter eggs. You are absolutely, unequivocally certain that the wax design you’re meticulously applying to the shell coupled with the sticker you’ll affix with artistic care after the egg has dried will result in a masterpiece worthy of surpassing in value any Faberge. It never does. It doesn’t even come close to matching the photoshopped examples depicted on the back of the dying kit.

Then there’s the flimsy egg holder made from the bottom of the same cardboard box. Although clearly advertised as capable of handling six finished eggs without signs of fatigue, the cut-out design begins warping after soaking up the excess, colored water from the first egg placed in it. Ours accommodates two at most before the cardboard buckles from compromised molecular bonds.

On a continuous loop and with much enthusiasm, we belt out just the first verse of “Here Comes Peter Cottontail” because nobody knows the lyrics after “…Easter’s on its way.”

THE BACCHANALIAN SUGAR FEST:

There’s a rush of elation when I sense added resistance on my forearm while lifting my basket. When all the candy is gone, I pick up and shake the intertwined “grass” with the hope a wayward jellybean may have gotten tangled in the plastic clot. And then that satisfying telltale sound of the previously hidden jellybean plinking back into the basket. Bonus elation if it was a red one.

A true litmus test as to whether someone has deep, psychological issues is they actually enjoy black jellybeans. If one of these demonic, warped ovals so much as touches any candy in my possession, the result will be a Level 5 Contamination. The entire lot is compromised and needs cleaning.

As designated on the official “nutritional” label, five Peeps chicks constitute one serving size. So, after ripping open the package, there is no reason to tear apart the clutch. It’s wasted energy. Best to utilize it for the continuous consumption of the yellow chickens (or pink bunnies if you’re bougie).

Leftover Peeps is not a thing. They get devoured in one sitting. Plus, the dislodged sugar coating that has accumulated in a corner of the package is poured into your mouth and swallowed like a chaser.

Following the decimation of each Peep’s single serving, there is the associated sugar rush, then guilt, then craving for more, then the crash, then a nap before dinner.

And who doesn’t know the importance of first checking the weight of your chocolate rabbit to see if it is solid or hollow so you can pre-adjust your bite force?

My interrogation of said chocolate rabbit repeats itself each year. *Thick German accent* “Yous vill tell me where yous have hidden der plastic eggs containing das money.” No response. “Very well, her Bunny. Yous have given me no choice. Say, ‘auf Wiedersehen’, to your ears.”

As it is prone to do, life has changed since my youthful days celebrating Easter. I now view this holiday from the perspective of an adult. My recent memories involve waiting for the price of eggs to come down while stocking up on discounted candy.