Friends

Pink is not my favorite color. And Easter pink might be pretty far down the chart on my color choices. Pink is usually not a good food choice.
Except when nothing in the world sounds good to eat and the effort of cooking seems overwhelming.

Bright pink became my friend today, like orange did yesterday, for the same reason. A pink egg became my salvation. It peeled like a dream, the yolk a perfect shade of butter and I knew they were cooked and colored with love.


Dear friends, a playwright and his lovely wife, accepted our invitation to enjoy a casual Easter dinner at our family table. I love to cook for the holidays and as my family of origin consisted of eight, I’m still learning how (and failing more often than not) to cook in small quantities.
When I greeted our friends at the door, the missus carried an apple pie and a small oblong casserole dish full of brightly colored boiled eggs.

In a flashback, I’m standing in the oak surround kitchen my father built, red-orange print carpet under my feet, harvest gold counters. It’s Easter Sunday 1970 something. My paternal Grandmother who might have been slightly over four foot six on her tippy toes, smiles wryly. The rainbow basket she brought only on Easter contained the waxy green shredded paper serving as "grass" and about a dozen brightly colored duck eggs.
I feel my face smile and it feels like the sun peeking out from rainclouds.

Condolences were offered and accepted regarding the recent loss of my dad (who incidentally was a big fan of egg yolks.) The holiday seemed all the richer for starting our visit with such a bright memory.

We ate and talked and laughed over dinner. With dessert, Jack and I discussed details of the play two of us had spent months working on. When our friends departed, I'm sad to see them go but glad for the meal, the memories and a bowl of eggs.

I think I’ll go make friends with that blue one…