It’s that time of year again, but this Easter I’m hosting the party at our house instead of my mother’s. After all, I have a dishwasher. And plenty of chairs. We decided to keep things simple and not cart all of the food over the hill and through the woods to Grandma’s house.
Seriously. It’s through the woods and over the hill, to be exact.
If you look closely at the above picture, you will see the gorgeous “Art of the Pie” cookbook I just picked up from the library. I’m experimenting with pie crusts right now. You’ll also notice the new “Gumbo” cookbook, purchased in New Orleans last December.
We’re having shrimp-okra gumbo along with the ham.
There will be plastic eggs, candy and yes, those cloth napkins definitely need to be ironed.
And then there’s the stuff on the kitchen island.
Check out the open kitchen window. Can you believe it? Warm (er) weather at last! See the flowers by the sink? I have big plans for them as a centerpiece.
The cans are all beans. Four different kinds. I’m thinking about making that recipe for Sunday, if I have the time. The brown paper bag contains white wine and Austin’s Deep Eddy lemon vodka.
My most pathetic Easter was back in the ’80’s, in Idaho. We were trying to come up with ideas to raise money to build a community center and the Saturday before Easter Sunday about a dozen of us organized–and cooked!!!– the first annual Ham Dinner fundraiser. I think 98% of the town showed up. Aside from helping with all of the cooking, Dancing Mandolin Player and I created about 100 little bags of candy so the children in town could have an Easter Hunt behind the elementary school (the dinner was being held in the basement cafeteria). Right after we “hid” all the bags, and minutes before the children were ready to “hunt”, dark clouds flew in from the lake and pelted all of us with hail. And rain. And wind.
It was very sad.
The Ham Dinner was a big success (and continued on for quite a few years after), but on Easter morning I was so tired I could barely move. I remember struggling to lift one eyelid to admire the baskets my three children were so excited about, but then I descended back into oblivion. For hours. And hours. And hours. I missed most of the day and I still feel badly about that.
Do you think they remember?
It’s always a little scary to hear their stories of their childhood, in their point of view.