Easter 2011

Easter has arrived a day early, in a herald of lung-hacking and blanket-groaning. My mother and I were struck down by the airport virus gods, who demand the madre's return on Sunday evening - so the day of feasting has been bumped up to Saturday. The lamb is being rubbed down with olive oil, rosemary, amoxicillin, and a cherry Robitussin glaze.

A new discovery this year: Chocovine. Chocolate milk, what has booze in it. "It isn't a holiday unless everyone is slightly drunk by the time the meat is carved," I reasoned reasonably.

My doctor loaded my mother's pockets with drugs - sadly not encapsulated in rattling pink plastic eggs - and we are cozied at home against the blustering rain with the smells of pie and yorkshire pudding. 

"I will write a letter to the Easter Bunny and ask him to leave you medicine in your basket," says the boy. "Even though he ate the letter last year. And the year before."
"Yeah, I don't think rabbits can read so good."

"I'll ask him to give you yarn, too."

I don't know when I became the kind of person who would get excited about a basket of yarn on Easter morning, but I got out the paper and crayons.