Happy Hopless Easter Bunny!
I've got nothing against eggs and bunnies. They are delicious. Especially in See's Candies form. I'd have a coop of chickens if they laid milk chocolates wrapped in pretty foil. That coop would be a shrine to the chocolate gods- See's, Godiva, Hershey, Seattle's Best...
Eggs. The Bennett clan has a brutal egg hunt every year. My Dad's eyes gleam while giddily dying a dozen eggs (of which only three dozen will reach the table in edible condition, the rest are mutiliated in the fight). The hunt is vicious- sprinting, slapping, shoving, screaming, stealing and lots of blatant greed. The little ones get a head start but are soon trampled by the adults as my folks stand on the porch and watch like Romans at a Gladiator show.
Year round, a large pink silk egg is kept in the kitchen hutch at eye level. It's from my Dad's family and contains the names of those whose basket held the most eggs that year. I'm proud to say this fat old lady has had her name in there a few times. Very proud to be there among names that have been recorded since the 50's. Very proud to have my name in there. Pride. Another sin. Dang.
Brian and I are bummed to miss that well adored tradition. Easter is always a blast at the Bennett's Greenbank abode.
But eggs and Rabbit are not Easter. They're blasphemy. Yep, I said it.
Blasphemy? What? Rabbits and eggs? Yep. Putting the symbols of laughable fertility gods alongside the greatest act of grace. Neon colored eggs, adorable fuzzy bunnies and glittering decor next to the Son of God who was battered to death and rose from the grave for us undeserving peons. Yep.
I know I'm a sinner. I'll even boldly say a professional. Despite my many, many, many, well-honed, hourly shortcomings, I am born again. Yeah, don't choke too hard laughing, I am what I am. I know what I know. Christianity is absolutely crazy. An insane fairy tale but it is true.
One summer night, at the tender age of fifteen, that Truth became my reality. It is the only thing in my life that never wavers- that Truth. The rest ebbs and flows more like the tides but that Truth holds me steadfast.
I can't explain it so I won't try. I'd fumble more than preteen boy trying to undo a bra. See? Colossal sinner. sigh
Now (I say as I step off my humble soap box) here's something I cannot stop smiling over. Not one to handle blood and guts no matter how delicious the meat, I cannot help but like this butcher shop.
Those are rabbits hanging there. Evil zombie bunnies hopping through the haunted forest. Yum.
This is what I know about rabbit from personal experience:
1. They truly taste like chicken.
2. When cooked they look like chicken but have tiny drumsticks.
3. Their poop is perfect little balls of brown. They'd make great Christmas garland. Popcorn, cranberries and poop.
3. Mommy rabbits will eat their young if human hands touch them when they are very little. When I was a kid our adorable white furball destroyed all 8 babies in a day. One day they were there, the next day gone- just tufts of fluff and blood.
4. Rabbits scream like human babies when you butcher them. My Dad never touched rabbit again after that.
Living in Crete, I've added new knowledge:
5. See the picture above? See their feet? Yes. It is cold in the fridge but those bits of fur aren't to keep their feet warm. No. Now here's something to ponder: there are lots of cats in Greece. Oodles of them wandering aimlessly and fairly easy to catch. So much easier than rabbits. Yep. Butchers were selling cats. Once skinned they look identical. Except the feet, hence a law to leave them some toasty slippers.
I wonder if cat tastes like chicken. I'm not opposed to trying any animal flesh as long as it's not a gut, butt or nut. Here kitty, kitty.
Happy Easter. May you know the true meaning of Christianity despite my shining crappy example.
I've got to go crucify some chocolate bunny ears with my teeth.
Speaking of sins- Cindy, my sister, is a serial Peep killer. She loves to nuke them just to watch them swell. What a sinner.
