I cried every Easter as a kid because my mother served lamb. When she finally switched to ham, I was already in therapy. Why a pig in the oven bothered me less remains a mystery. But that lamb was another story.
I had what was called a Biblical Encyclopedia my parents read to me when I was small. I loved all the animals, especially the lambs. They were so cute cuddling up to their moms making me ask for one every Christmas not understanding why I couldn’t have one.
The bible is very violent and needs a rewrite in my opinion. The blood of the lamb, the sacrificial lamb. Come on, I was 4 not quite grasping why you’d kill a poor baby animal. What was next, kittens…me?
My mother, with her Lizzie Borden leanings, would laugh even when I had nightmares the night before. I remember asking my dad if we could go rescue the lambs before all the moms cooked them.
No wonder he drank.
Then, after being rather ecstatic over my Easter Basket stacked with enough chocolate to kill me, I had to face dinner. “No no, just potatoes for me.” My mother would go nuts and say, if I didn’t eat my lamb there would be no chocolate. Hmm, this wasn’t good news to this candy crackhead who waited cheerfully for her annual stomach ache.
She’d make me sit there with slabs of it on my plate while I sobbed ruining everyone’s meal. My grandmother, my mother’s mother, one year reached over and slapped me so hard I fell off my chair. As you can see, love and understanding ran in the family.
It was the best thing that could have happened since I was then sent to my room where Fluffy the cat paced nervously wringing her paws while l told her everything, appreciating how she never commented, just listened. Now there’s a concept.
And as for that Easter basket confiscated as part of my punishment, my grandfather would knock on the door and say, “I’d like tua speak tua Soo-zee.” I of course would let him in knowing his vest pockets would be packed with candy.
Happy Easter everyone, and think about serving fish.