Marshmallow Eggs

For most of those who live in the Western Hemisphere, it's that time of year again. If you're a practicing Christian, it isn't hard to imagine what your morning today must have looked like: rising from bed early, donning the best of your Sunday best, and heading off to church with a song on your lips, praising the living Christ. For many of us who grew up in a Christian household, Easter isn't just an important tradition we've kept from our childhoods. At least, not to me.

If I'm being totally honest here, though, I didn't really like Easter all that much when I was little. Being pried out of my warm, comfy bed and dragged off to a sunrise service was not my idea of fun. More than once, I recall being allowed to attend Easter service in my pajamas, just because we were late and Mama gave up on trying to dress me and my sisters. I have very few memories of those Easter sermons, as I confess to sleeping through a lot of them. All I really remember is being bored and cold, and frantically brushing ladybugs off me. On those cold spring mornings, they were drawn to the lamps over the pews for warmth, and they had a nasty habit of falling down onto the congregation. Sometimes, though, I think they targeted me on purpose because they knew how much I hated them.

My warmer Easter memories usually take place after church ended. Every year, the Easter Bunny left my sisters and me beautiful baskets of toys and chocolate and all sorts of wonderful things. Of course, we weren't allowed to touch them until after church, furthering the agony of anticipation. Those tubes of Reeses cups, Hershey eggs wrapped in colored foil, and Palmers bunnies remained locked in their shiny cellophane prisons for good reason, as nothing was worse that a chocolate stain on my brand-new Easter dress. After church, however, all bets were off... but the full extent of my sugar rush was denied. We each only got to eat one or two treats, so we wouldn't spoil our appetites for lunch.

Now Easter lunch always has a special place in my heart. For as long as I can remember, we'd pack up our baskets and the half-dozen dishes my mother slaved over and head down the road to my paternal grandparents' house for the big meal. The weather was usually warm and fair; sunny, but not quite hot enough to make you sweat. I can still feel the breeze in my hair, rustling the leaves of the enormous pecan trees in my grandparents' sprawling front yard, perfumed with the sweet scent of red geraniums, knock-out roses, and daffodils. My Maw-Maw has always had a green thumb, but the daffodils were Paw-Paw's favorites. Over the years, he must've planted hundreds for her, often in neatly-planned rows that would spell out her name. A few of them come back every spring, like a part of him is still with us.

In addition to green thumbs, my family is blessed with excellent cooks. My mouth waters at the memory of my Maw-Maw's succulent honey-glazed ham and sweet potato souffle. Mama's cornbread dressing and green bean casserole was and still is lip-smacking good, always a staple of the Easter table. My aunt usually preferred to experiment, bringing at least one new dish every year along with her signature fudge and cornflake candy. And of course, the meal would not be complete without my uncle's famous "angel" eggs (which are a lot like devilled eggs, only better). The crown jewel of every Easter lunch, however, was my great-grandma's seven-layer coconut cake, cut in the shape of a bunny for the occasion. To this day, it is the absolute best cake I've ever tasted... and I cannot stand coconut. While I have her recipe, and have made it a few times since her passing, it never quite turns out right.

Once we'd stuffed ourselves to the gills, my favorite part of the day would kick off: the annual egg hunt. My cousins, sisters, and I were kept indoors with our baskets ready, distracted while my daddy, Paw-Paw, and uncles hid the eggs outside. The anticipation was wonderful and intolerable all at the same time, enough to make my little heart want to explode. Then, when that screen door was opened and we were allowed onto the front porch, the wait was all worth it.

I remember my sandals slipping and sliding all over the grass as I searched high and low for those eggs. A few were boiled, dyed by my sisters and I the night before with Mama and Daddy's help. Most of them, though, were plastic, usually stuffed with chocolate coins or Reeses cups, or whatever other small, individually-wrapped candies were on sale. The ones we were all on the lookout for the most, though, were filled with money: a genius idea my Maw-Maw came up with. It usually wasn't much - a quarter here or fifty cents there, sometimes a whole dollar if you were lucky. Regardless, if the egg felt empty or rattled a lot when you picked it up, it still felt like you'd won a million-dollar jackpot.

I realize most places offer prizes at egg hunts for whomever collects the most, but that was something we really didn't do. Our baskets full of booty were prize enough for us. We'd always count to see who had the most, though, just for fun, and the "winner" was usually my second oldest sister or my oldest cousin. I remember we'd sit on the porch afterward, checking all the eggs to see what was in them and passing the hard-boiled ones back to Mama and Maw-Maw so they could be refrigerated for later. Paw-Paw always picked at us while we were looking over our baskets, pretending to steal our treats when our backs were turned.

One of the treats we found in our eggs every year were these little marshmallow eggs wrapped in clear plastic sleeves that I don't think they make anymore. If you've ever had a Circus Peanut, they're kind of similar, but they had this shiny candy coating on the outside. Don't ask me what they're called, though, or who makes them, because I really can't remember. I never cared for them - they were sickly sweet and had kind of an unpleasant waxy aftertaste - but Paw-Paw loved them. Whenever he tried to sneak one from my basket, I pretended not to see and let him take it, just because I knew he liked them so much.

My Paw-Paw was never the most talkative man, but I really think he loved those Easter parties. The way he teased us and smiled - usually with his dentures out to be extra gross, just because he could - is something I'll never forget. Most of the time he was kind of gruff and quiet, but those rare times when he allowed himself to be goofy and silly will always be moments I treasure.

Once the egg hunt ended, it pretty much marked the end of our Easter celebration, too. After going home and peeling out of our good clothes, we were finally allowed to gorge ourselves on our combined spoils from the egg hunt and the Easter Bunny, provided we had any room left in our tummies. That's when my dad would usually put on the Ten Commandments or Ben-Hur, and my sisters and I would scatter. He and Mama watched them every year, and for the longest time I didn't know why. After sitting through a boring church service that morning, watching a multi-hour Biblical epic at the end of the day was the last thing I wanted to do. When I got a little older, I sat and watched a few minutes with them, but I could never sit through the whole thing.

Now that I'm grown, I still do my best to keep those Easter traditions alive. I look for those marshmallow eggs every year, hoping that will be the year I finally find them again. I smile every time I see a daffodil waving on my Maw-Maw's front lawn. I look forward to services on Easter morning, feeling sad on those rare times I'm not able to go. While we haven't had an egg hunt in years, my family still gets together for Easter lunch, and sometimes I feel froggy and whip up a bunny cake for it. We share stories over the meal and enjoy being a family, remembering our loved ones who have passed and welcoming new members into the fold. Once we go our separate ways, I usually spend the rest of the day in my sweats, watching The Ten Commandments and/or Ben-Hur with my folks and chowing down on a chocolate bunny or two. It's strange to think that I found those movies so boring when I was a child, because now I quite enjoy them. Easter just doesn't feel like Easter to me anymore without Charlton Heston.

Over the years, I've learned how special this holiday is to me. It might not be my favorite, but it resonates with my soul deeply. I can't think of Easter without thinking of my childhood, as many of my happiest memories surround the holiday. It feels like I forget a little more of my childhood with every passing day, and what little I still remember is not as happy as I would like. Easter, however, always sparks joy in my heart, because it helps me remember the good times... just like daffodils and marshmallow eggs.