Easter weekend was satisfying, restorative, and replete with eggs, in a way perhaps possible only when all participants are not, and do not yet have, children. It was much as if we packed up our friends and went to a house in the country, except that we didn't actually have to go anywhere. It was also, now that I think it over, outrageously wholesome, though only if I gloss over the vast amount of alcohol consumed. Our friend Rose had come to town, which was a special treat. Rose is a lovely person with gentle ways who for some mysterious reason seems to enjoy our company even though we are all a bunch of heartless apes. Fey, who has been her best friend since they were miserable prepubescent weirdos (rather than the crotchety well-postpubescent weirdos we are today) broke her in.
Friday I ran away from work early. We then watched Gosford Park and ate take-out Thai food. Saturday afternoon, we decorated eggs. First we dyed them using many-years-old rather horrifying dyes encased in rabbit-shaped bath-bead things that became increasingly bloated and horrific as they sat at the bottom of the dye cups. Then we painted them with tiny watercolor brushes. Scenes painted on those eggs not sacrificed to egg salad sandwiches included a spaceship flying to the sun and tiny people burning in the fires of hell.
Later Fey and Rose napped while Steve, Mark, and I played cribbage. Then we all went out to a restaurant called Momocho and found that, contrary to all trends ever observed at Cleveland restaurants ever, there were MORE vegetarian options on the menu than at our last visit. I waffled over whether or not to get the most outré option (beet taquitos), but did and was not even a bit sorry.
Sunday, then, was the glorious egg hunt. It continues to amaze me that Mark and Fey keep their house so thoroughly in order that they can happily invite their friends to root through ALL of their stuff, but so they do. We really do it up in style. Mark is the head egg-hider and master of ceremonies. This year there were forty-five plastic eggs with candy (and clues to a final puzzle) inside, as well as the dozen eggs we dyed the day before. My favorite part is always near the end of the hunt, when there are a few especially well-hidden eggs left, and Mark travels from searcher to searcher to let us know how many are left, so that we don't give up before the end. It always seems to work out just right, so that the last few are distributed nicely across several rooms, and everyone gets to have a good challenging final search. As always, we all enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. Adulthood certainly no obstacle, except perhaps to our ability not to be rather sickened by the great deal of candy that confronted us at the end.
After that, we naturally turned our attentions to a rousing game of cornhole played with balled-up kneesocks. I am sorry that there are no pictures.
Following a mildly obscene quanity of deviled eggs for lunch, we whisked Rose back to our house where we talked for hours over coffee and tea. Then we walked back to the other house for the final dinner and some lively conversation about historic murders, Roman emperors, and state flags. And then Easter was over until next year, except that it lives on (and, no doubt, on) in the many Cadbury cream eggs now inhabiting our kitchen drawer.
"That was funny, what you wrote about me and the hat."
"Yes, I think I might post it to the blog after all."
"Oh no! My secret shame! I'm a hat fiddler!"
Snark is working at his computer on the sofa, with his knit hat sitting companionably next to him like a deflated small animal. We have a programmable thermostat that will automatically let the temperature of your house plunge to something cheap and uncomfortable while you're out or sleeping, and heat it back up in time for you to care. The idea, of course, is that you save money without actually suffering any deprivation. However, we set the times back when we both went out of the house to work every day. Since then, things have changed, and he works at home while I'm at my office on campus. You might think that he would adjust the settings to reflect this fact, but instead he likes to try to muscle his way through, and I often come home to find him wearing a hat, a scarf, a coat, or all three. I'm sure he'd wear gloves too if he could type with them. Then I turn up the heat and make fun of him, and he slowly sheds the extra garments. The result is that bits of winter clothing can often be found in unexpected places around the house.
Now he has just idly reached out and picked up the hat with one hand as he stares at the computer. He's put his hand in it like a mitten and is twirling it around and around. Now he's dropped it back down again, and it sadly looks much more deflated this time around: no longer companionable, just defeated. Oops! He's picked it up again and put his hand back inside. He gives it a number of little quick shakes, then puts it back down. All of this seems to be entirely unconscious. His gaze remains fixed on the screen, and his face gives no indication that he has noticed the hat at all. It's just something between Hand and Hat; he takes no part in it himself.
Oh! I'd been spending some time trying to articulate the special variety of ennui and encroaching mortality that has been plaguing me lately (products of this effort not worth keeping for posterity) and while I was engrossed in that, the hat somehow made its way right back onto Snark's head.
Observing all of this has actually been very cheering.
And now Snark has just offered to get up and make us cocoa, and the cat is scrabbling at the door asking to be let out (he'll regret it, it's turned back into winter out there). Melancholy provisionally averted, domesticity ascendant.
My only regret is that this photo is of mere iPhone quality.
