Tag Archives: Easter

Easter Eggs a Dying Art

I am a grown woman with what I consider to be a reasonably mature outlook on life. Nonetheless, I was having a pretty childish fit about dying Easter eggs. Nobody was going to be around, there was no reason to do it, but I still wanted to dye Easter eggs. Just a few, maybe a dozen. I didn’t even have to buy Easter egg dye, because I had found an old box, buried under a pile of old Easter decorations. I blew off all the dust and brought it upstairs.

First, though, I needed eggs. Eventually I decided to boil a dozen and a half..to allow for broken ones, and because I like to dye them. I put the eggs on to boil and went into the living room to watch my favorite show…that’s right, I was watching the Rifleman.

When I heard the first mysterious pop, I thought I missed something on the show and they had shot off a gun before the finale. The second pop made me sure that the cat was on the counters in the kitchen, so without taking my eyes off the television, I yelled, “Cat! Get out of the kitchen.”

The third and fourth pops occurred at about the same time that I registered that the cat was relaxing on the deck outside the front window and it was then that I realized that the end music of the Rifleman was playing and I had put the eggs on to boil during the opening music of the program.

I raced out to the kitchen in time for eggs five, six and seven to explode and through a haze of smoke, I snatched the eggs off the stove and ran the scorched mess full of cold water, causing a further smoke and steam mixture.

Choking, coughing, my eyes streaming, I poured the poor, scorched, cracked up messes in the garbage. You would think that would be the end of it, wouldn’t you? Not me. I got another container of eggs from the store…okay, so I got two full 18-count cartons just to be sure. Coming home, I put 18 eggs on the stove and the rest in the fridge. I turned off the television and turned on the timer.

In the end, I came out with 18-count of eggs perfectly boiled, not a one broken. I put them in their carton and put them in the fridge until it was time to dye them.

At last I was ready to dye the eggs. I took out the color tablets and the wax crayon for writing names and I began. Except I could not remember which carton of eggs were the boiled ones…okay, so I was sure I knew, and without question, I grabbed the right carton and started working on names with the wax crayon. Then, I got out the tablets to drop into the vinegar and water. The tablets were a little old, they were extremely crumbly, but when they went into the mixture, they didn’t dissolve at all well.

I put in the first egg which I had written on and if I hadn’t been struggling to write on the next egg, I might have noticed that it sort of floated weirdly. I was writing on the second egg, though and having trouble making the wax stay. I must have pushed pretty hard, because the egg smashed in my hand and the next thing I knew I was holding a handful of raw egg. Okay, so I had the wrong carton.

So I threw away the raw eggs and began working with the ones in the other carton…which were boiled, but which didn’t take the wax writing any better than the raw one. I dumped them in the dye and because the dye tablets didn’t dissolve well, the eggs came out splotchy and freckly… and the wax names did not show at all.

I didn’t give up. I dyed all those eggs and not one single name showed up. What was I going to do? I had a bunch of eggs with no names on them that looked like they had been attacked with a colorful version of the plague. But they were dyed. And in the end, I discovered that I’ve wasted a lot of years with those wax crayons when a nice black sharpie marker will do the job so much better! I hope everyone had a great Easter and that you didn’t all need three dozen (plus 2) eggs to get a decent batch dyed….and that your dye wasn’t old enough to vote! Have a good week!

Leave a comment

Filed under Humorous Column

It’s Finally Happening…

 

Before I say anything on this subject, let me assure you that I know what Easter is truly about. I know it’s not about the Easter bunny or who wore what to church or anything like that. I know Easter is the celebration of the fact that my Redeemer lives. Having said that, I have a few more comments on the holiday.

As a child growing up, Easter was always the time of year when we got new clothes—something fancy for Easter, because my mother insisted that new clothes on Easter Sunday was an important tradition.

For me, it was more often the cramming of my body into clothing that was stiff and new and most definitely not of my choosing. There are pictures of me as a child in little green sailor dresses and pastel plaid skirts with pleats and little headbands full of flowers, etc., you get the picture.

Worst of all, believe it or not, were the shoes and stockings. We couldn’t just wear regular ones—it was either socks with stiff decorations on them that made my ankles itch, or even worse, white panty-hose stockings that made my legs itch all over and which invariably had a large blot of mud on them somewhere that I got by climbing carelessly out of a farm vehicle. The shoes were no better, white patent leather, black patent leather, it didn’t matter. They were stiff, uncomfortable and frequently made my stockings snag.

My mother dressed me up in these outfits in the name of “Easter Sunday Fashion.” She couldn’t help it; it’s what her mother did to her and probably what Grandmother’s mother did to her. It was a family tradition of misery that went way back, and while we celebrated the Risen Lord, we itched, scratched, tugged and stained our way through that fateful day.

We usually went to some family dinner or another after church, which meant we had to keep those miniature torture chambers on and try not to get our ham dinner on them—for me an impossible task. We were allowed to change into more comfortable clothes after dinner, but usually I was too stubborn for that. I continued to wear the dress-up clothes and sat tugging at my collar and itching my legs while everyone else ran around and had fun in their old jeans.

When my own girls were growing up, I tried once or twice to go the dress up dollies route, but it seemed I was either too broke or too busy to get the job done right. I was pleased with myself. I hadn’t forced my girls to wear silly headbands or gender-defining tights (at least, not very often.) By the time they could voice a real opinion, they thought that if the jeans were Silver Jeans, that was dress-up enough. As for flowery headbands—forget it. I once used ribbon and a headband base to make them fancy, braided, elegant headbands with elaborate bows on the ends. Those little engineers were far more interested in how they had been made than how they would look in their hair. It took little time for them to deconstruct them, discard the headband base and use the ribbon for something more fun—like, decorating the dog!

No, I was not like my mother. I was not going to force my daughters to dress up as I had to. I was feeling pretty smug about this until today. Today, I was sent a picture of my grandsons, enjoying the Easter holiday. And what were they wearing? Little suit outfits I had sent them crowned by the bunny ears headbands I had put in their Easter baskets.

Hear that splash? That’s the dam breaking as my mother starts to leak through!

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Leave a comment

Filed under Humorous Column