This Sunday is Easter and I am looking forward to the Easter Bunny dropping a basketful of candy at my door. Wait, what? You say he’s not real? I beg to differ. I have seen his fluffy ass in Times Square. Oh, and when I was younger I left a note in my empty basket asking for his autograph and got a dirty paw print. See? Real.
I always ate my Easter candy in order: jelly beans first (after trading away the gross black licorice ones to my brother), Peeps second, chocolate foil-wrapped eggs third, marshmallow eggs fourth, malted speckled eggs fifth and big hollow chocolate bunny last. Easter was the only day our Mom allowed us to eat crap first thing in the morning (our “sugary” cereal was Cheerios, for criminysakes). By 10am I always had a terrible stomach ache but never let on lest the cherished sugar feast be removed from the holiday menu.
Here is a pic of me and my brother in our Easter finery. Notice that my basket is already empty. I may look like I’m squinting from the bright sun, but I’m probably about to barf. Happy Easter everyone!
That’s my great granny in the blue windbreaker and behind her is my great Aunt Dorothy. If you look at my granny’s hands you will glimpse what mine will look like when/if I reach 90 years of age, because the family gene pool arranged for me to get her hands.
She used her hands to make delicious food for the people she cared about: pies, casseroles, biscuits, applesauce, chops – even her salads rocked and that’s saying a lot because they were old school iceberg lettuce salads. She would whip up whatever food we caught or dug up at the beach near her home into a tasty dish.
Granny was sentimental and kind but not overly affectionate. She showed her love for family and friends by stuffing them full of homemade culinary goodness.
My own hands? Not so much. They make a mean vegetable curry (which may or may not be spicy enough for my British friends) but that’s pretty much where my cooking “talents” end. I miss my granny. Her daughter, my great Aunt Dorothy, is not much of a cook, but man alive can that woman make a martini! The gene pool also gave me Aunt Dorothy’s love of martinis. Cheers, DNA!
I must have been going through a massive growth spurt (notice pants length) and was so incredibly hungry that I had to gnaw on my own arm for sustenance.
This is from 2010, taken at my sister’s old house next to the rice fields. It was a chilly and windy day but we were happy to be spending time with our niece whom we love to bits. Just looking at her face in this pic makes me want to fly to California right this minute so I can smooch those cheeks.
Here are my parents on their wedding day, happy and brimming with youth and hope. Shortly after this (but more than 9 months–this weren’t no shotgun wedding) I came along and put a crimp in their carefree lifestyle.
From my father I developed a passion for music, and learned the importance of storytelling within a family and out in the world. From my mother I acquired a love for interior decorating, and was taught the value in making guests feel welcomed into your home.
Throwback Thursday is a thing. And this picture makes me long for warmer weather. Dearest Spring, I hope you are just around the corner…of next week.