This Sunday is Easter.
As a boy, growing up in a largely Christian community, I loathed Easter. It was, like Christmas, one of those days where lonely Jewish kids were left alone with their thoughts and mediocre toys, while Gary and Dennis and Scott and Jon would chase eggs, eat chocolate and pose with an 8-foot bunny.
OK, the bunny pictures I could do without.
I digress. Easter sucked. It was lonely, and everyone else seemed to be having so much fun. I was always in a funk, and I’m guessing Mom and Dad found that quite annoying. Hence, when I was, oh, 9 or 10 my mother came up with an idea.
“Why don’t we dye eggs?” she said.
“Really!”
“Would you like to?” she said.
“Yes!”
So, in the days leading up to Easter, Mom bought some food coloring, broke out a bunch pf eggs, hard-boiled them, then pulled up to the table. Over the next 20 minutes, we dyed eggs. It was quiet and largely uneventful. Some of the eggs were blue. Some pink. Some pink and blue. When we were done, Mom looked at me.
“Was that fun?” she said
“Not really.”
The eggs were tossed, and I returned to my toys.
They no longer seemed particularly mediocre.
