The Easter Egg Hunt
April 12th 2009 05:55
When I was a wee whipper snipper, we always went to my maternal grandparent's home for Easter Sunday, after Mass.
My cousins would be there too, so eleven kids in all and six adults, if my dad was home and not out exploring the vast interior of Australia, (which he mostly did when we were small, away nine months of the year every year, up until I was about ten or so).
Our grandmother, "Nonna" as she preferred to be called, was in charge of the hunt, and before we had all arrived for Easter Sunday, she had her housekeeper assist her hide the eggs around her front garden, which had a goldfish pond, into which all of us children fell, at some time or other.
There was one golden rule applied each year and that was, my second eldest sister and my eldest cousin, also a girl, were given a special area to search for their eggs, the rest of us were directed well away from them.
The reason? They were the two favourites of Nonna, who always gave them gorgeous large chocolate eggs, while the rest of us had to suffice with those awful, gigantic hard lolly eggs, that were a terrible pastel pink or blue, with hard white icing piped around the middle.
You nearly broke your teeth trying to eat them, and they tasted slightly weird, an unusual sugary taste that was like no other.
We were not allowed to eat them in the garden, we had to come inside to the lounge room, while the special girls greedily tucked into their chocolate eggs outside, or if raining, the 'chosen ones were directed to the piano room. It was the worst kept secret and it never failed to provide a tacit feeling of resentment and gloom.
When raining, the inside hunt was more boring, as there were few places Nonna could choose, without risking the little terrors damaging something, so one was always directed to "Look somewhere around the fireplace dear", so either behind the unlit logs, or under the grate, or inside the fire screen, one found the awfully ugly, near indigestible lolly egg.
Once both grandparents had become too infirm and went into hospital nursing care, the era of the fugly lolly eggs came to a close, and the joyous chocolate eggs, hidden in our own gardens, replaced them.
No more did we share Easter Sunday with our cousins, which was an unfortunate side effect, but, while gulping down chocolate, the thought nary occurred to me.
Father, when home during Easter, would usually buy a gigantic chocolate egg, which we as a family would take days to devour, the base of which was so thick, one had to use a blunt instrument, usually the heavy hand turned wooden walnut hammer, (made by a family friend), to crack it apart.
Those were the days....
IMAGE CREDITS:
All images courtesy of free clip art site "DESIGNED TO A T"
Follow "Designed To A T" Link here: LINK
My cousins would be there too, so eleven kids in all and six adults, if my dad was home and not out exploring the vast interior of Australia, (which he mostly did when we were small, away nine months of the year every year, up until I was about ten or so).
Our grandmother, "Nonna" as she preferred to be called, was in charge of the hunt, and before we had all arrived for Easter Sunday, she had her housekeeper assist her hide the eggs around her front garden, which had a goldfish pond, into which all of us children fell, at some time or other.
There was one golden rule applied each year and that was, my second eldest sister and my eldest cousin, also a girl, were given a special area to search for their eggs, the rest of us were directed well away from them.
The reason? They were the two favourites of Nonna, who always gave them gorgeous large chocolate eggs, while the rest of us had to suffice with those awful, gigantic hard lolly eggs, that were a terrible pastel pink or blue, with hard white icing piped around the middle.
You nearly broke your teeth trying to eat them, and they tasted slightly weird, an unusual sugary taste that was like no other.
We were not allowed to eat them in the garden, we had to come inside to the lounge room, while the special girls greedily tucked into their chocolate eggs outside, or if raining, the 'chosen ones were directed to the piano room. It was the worst kept secret and it never failed to provide a tacit feeling of resentment and gloom.
When raining, the inside hunt was more boring, as there were few places Nonna could choose, without risking the little terrors damaging something, so one was always directed to "Look somewhere around the fireplace dear", so either behind the unlit logs, or under the grate, or inside the fire screen, one found the awfully ugly, near indigestible lolly egg.
Once both grandparents had become too infirm and went into hospital nursing care, the era of the fugly lolly eggs came to a close, and the joyous chocolate eggs, hidden in our own gardens, replaced them.
No more did we share Easter Sunday with our cousins, which was an unfortunate side effect, but, while gulping down chocolate, the thought nary occurred to me.
Father, when home during Easter, would usually buy a gigantic chocolate egg, which we as a family would take days to devour, the base of which was so thick, one had to use a blunt instrument, usually the heavy hand turned wooden walnut hammer, (made by a family friend), to crack it apart.
Those were the days....
IMAGE CREDITS:
All images courtesy of free clip art site "DESIGNED TO A T"
Follow "Designed To A T" Link here: LINK
| 17 |
| Vote |
