Eggs

042411

  Lindsay and I are painting eggs. We’re drawing faces on them, of Jenny, Deanne, Jeremy and each other. It’s been a tradition of sorts for my family for as long as I can remember, for as long as I had a family, to use painted eggs as placeholders for Easter lunch. Jenny and I used to love doing it. Of course we became teens and we began to loathe it, consider it a chore, but did it nevertheless. Sitting here, next to Lindsay, I’m beginning to love it all over again.

  “Why eggs,” I ask absently as I draw Jenny’s jet black hair on the side of the egg in my hands. It looks sort of like her. I captured her best when I was six. I remember being so proud of the likeness I’d crafted that I cried when my mother went to put it in the pan of boiling water. Jenny said she didn’t want to eat it after all and it became part of the centrepiece instead. It was a good year.

  “What do you mean?” Lindsay asks, equally as distracted.
  “I mean why eggs, what does that have to do with Easter?”
  “It doesn’t,” Lindsay says, concentrating on the egg in her hand. Her eyes intermittently flick to my face, giving away the fact it’s me she’s drawing on the side I can’t see. “The whole egg theme is from a Pagan ritual, a celebration of spring and new life.”
  “So we stole it?”
  “Yeah. We steal a lot. Come on, you know this. Christmas isn’t Christmas and all that.”
  “Yeah but…” I pause, “I guess I never thought about this sort of stuff before.”
  “The painting of the egg was around five hundred years before JC emerged from a virgin, you know.”
  “No way,” I say, honestly surprised. I guess I still kind of thought it was our thing. Like we were hipster cool and indie for doing it.
  “Yeah way,” Lindsay says, fountain of knowledge that she is, “the Zoroastrians kick-started the tradition to honour their king.

  We set down our eggs on the table in a neat little row,  all of them resting in eggcups we’ve decorated to look like suits or dresses respectively. It’s cute, our little army of edible friends.
  “We’ve still got one left,” I say, picking out the spare from our six-pack. 
  “Wanna see if I can fry it on my stomach?” Lindsay asks.
  “I do. I really really do.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE:
Happy Easter y’all.

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~ by Joseph Blame on April 24, 2011.

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