I guess Easter was my favorite holiday back when I was a kid. I barely celebrate it nowadays, mainly because our family is spread out, but don’t you worry kiddo, when you grow up you’ll your basketful of eggs, chocolate eggs, sugar eggs, name ‘em, you got ‘em. It’ll be simple
eggxtravanganza.
Your mom - a smart one she is - had figured out a couple things about Easter. We both knew our parents were behind the bunny stuff (which by the way in France is replaced by a bell. Easter saved by the bell) and so on Easter morning (always a Sunday), we’d sneak behind the round window in the staircase and spied on our parents who were hiding eggs in the garden. Then the egg rush came! Our dad would summon us and my sister and I would rush down the 2 flights of stairs past our bemused parents to the garden and snatch every last egg. Now your sister, apart from being a very clever two-braid little girl, was also a pretty fast 8-year-old and my short 6-year-old legs were no match for hers.
Then again, I had a lethal weapon: the pout (from the French faire la potte. I never heard that expression but that’s what Mr. Collaborative International Dictionary of English v.0.48 says). Should I feel neglected or cheated out of my fair share of eggs, I’d pout. And where my legs had let me down, my face had won. But then again, your mom being sweet and kind (hmmm I wouldn’t want her to keep you away from me so any kind of cajolery is always in order).
I remember the piano was a strategic egg hiding place when the raid occured indoors. Imagine, on each key a small, carefully wrapped chocolate friandise - sweet! That’s where legs or no legs, pouts or no pouts the arguments started. My sister and I would fight over that egg pinnacle. Much to our parents’ dismay. But then again, whose fault was it in the first place? Never ever hid eggs in the piano, Dad!
Aaah Easter, t’was sweet indeed.
