4 days ago
Easter Sunday - one of those annual traditions that will always appeal to my inner child. It all begins with the sun rays tickling you out of bed (note no alarm!). A large breakfast table with sweet jams, warm sourdough bread and strong coffee makes my mouth water, but my mind is already drifting off to the bigger event. Brushing my teeth after breakfast feels like the necessary but dreaded prolonging. A tease like waiting to drink a glass of sparkly water until you’re really really thirsty.
Then, I’d go first. Basket at the ready, I’d storm into the garden with the Easter eggs. Here’s where the tradition changes to the better every year. From small coloured eggs, to chocolaty goods, to culinary highlights, as the years go by we’d adjust the gifts for the real cravings. This year: handmade chocolate fudge, regional honey, traditional preserves and locally brewed beers. Then the goal is to hide them. And hide them well. We’ve managed to find gifts years after, long forgotten, sometimes rotten, sometimes only getting better as if it was their duty all along. After I filled the highest tree branches, the rain pipe, some flower pots, maybe a hole in the wall, with the little treasures, it’s my mom’s turn. She has to go second, because otherwise you’d find all of her gifts as you’re hiding yours. If I hide mine well enough, she doesn’t spot them on her way around. My dad goes last. My mom gets most of the gifts anyway, so he’d usually just run outside to hide one last act of kindness for her. Then the race is on. Excited like puppies off the leash, we’d turn the entire garden inside out. Slowly, the rusty table is growing with sweet & savoury trophies until finally all is found. By then, you’d already hear my mom rustling for a spoon in the kitchen to try all the chutneys, while my dad would nibble a corner of the chocolate fudge and claim to be full until dinner. I love it. Last year, this year and next. I’m ready and hungry for more. at University of Greenwich