Easter Eggs

I picked daughter up from school yesterday. I could sense the excitement radiating off of her, that she was jumping up & down like a Mexican Jumping Bean had nothing to do with it. Teacher shouted a quick warning at me:

“Careful! She’s going to throw an egg!” As daughter came running out of the playground, arm cocked back and rocketing an hardboiled egg at my head. I jumped out of the way just in time as both daughter and teacher burst into giggles. I was actually ticked for a little bit, what if the egg had hit me? Hard boiled eggs are not soft. Which reminds me of a family favorite…

Way back when, before I was born way back when, my mother was growing up in a small house in The Netherlands with two brothers and four sisters. And it was the first Easter that a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, attended the family Easter dinner. Ton, the eldest, had a girlfriend sitting at his side. He was dressed in his best suit, had on his best, pompous, behavior, and expected the rest of the siblings to revere him like, well, God would be blasphemous but you get the idea. Of course, as in most families celebrating Easter, cracking dyed eggs on heads is a tradition. My uncle Hans, the only one brave enough to brave Ton in his current state of pompousosity, cracked his egg on Ton’s head. Unfortunately, it was soft boiled. Everyone stared in horror, then hysterical laughter, as yellow yolk dripped down his hair, his face, onto his new suit. With his date sitting next to him.

Daughters egg wasn’t hard either. Neither was it soft. Instead of yellow yolk dripping everywhere bright, sparkly confettie burst out! She’d had a great time in art class, blowing eggs clean, stuffing and painting. Not as much fun as she had throwing them at me, eldest, the dad, but fun. I wish my uncle Hans was still around, he’d love these eggs.