Thursday, April 21


As we've established, I have a lot of screwed up memories from childhood. Sometimes it was my Dad having a bong sitting on top of the TV (which he tried to convince me was a vase), other times it was watching him chop wood in his living room or looking on as my Mom switched price tags on Christmas trees - always a good time.

There do exist other memories that aren't so twisted thanks to the other women in my life, my Grandmothers. When I was a little kid, they would race to see who could get me an Easter dress and white patent-leather shoes first. Oh, how I loved searching through the big and chunky section of Belk-Legget to find pastel perfection. Those white shoes never quite fit thanks to my freakishly high arch, so they were a one-wear type of deal.

Yes, I went to church on Easter. No I didn't pay attention. Instead, I spent the time day dreaming about the exquisite fried meal that was coming my way after the wah-wah-wah-wah of the sermon. Easter dinner is one of the few things that I miss about the South, but then again food is a very big deal there, which is probably why I was so chunky.

Truth be told, I feel bad that Piper is missing out on that aspect of childhood. I want her to experience an unnaturally poofy dress, the thrill of those patent leather shoes for a day (poor thing has my feet) and being forced to sit still during what is quite possibly the longest hour of your life. In order for these things to happen though, I have to go against every fiber of my being and take her to church, and I'm not so sure that's a good trade off in the end.

Eggs? Check. Rabbits? Check. Easter, is that you?
So since Easter service at a church is out, I figured that I could at least let her enjoy the tradition of letting her get her grub on at Easter brunch. You know, the Jesus holidays always bring the best food don't they? I bet on the eighth day God actually made Crisco.

I thought that trying to get the family together would be a fun thing to do. How wrong I was. I made plans for Piper to go to the local Easter egg hunt (the Easter Eggstravaganza - I didn't make that up), and the next day a nice family brunch. My awesome plan first met resistance from Mark who took issue merely with the word "Easter," even if it was combined with "brunch." There is really only one kind of brunch that I would steer clear of, and that's a Holocaust brunch. Can't imagine that the portions are that big (I am so sorry).

Instead of going out, Mark said that he'd just make brunch at home. That's kind of like watching someone have a full on stroke in your kitchen, and then eating at the hospital. Yeah, it's that much fun. After a day of woman pout, Mark finally relented and agreed to brunch in a restaurant with our parents. I'm just hoping that I can talk my dad out of the workout pants long enough to eat. I know I'm in trouble when I get a text that asks "how nice is this place?"

It's not really because brunch is such a big deal, it in and of itself. It's because I'm trying to make memories. It's strange, but I feel like all of the traditions of my family have slipped away with my Grandmothers. What's even more strange is that I miss that silly shit. I miss my Nana trimming the maple crust off the Honey Baked Ham to the horror of everyone at the table. I miss the annual "Airing of Grievances" at my uncle's house. It was BYOB and you'd better also bring your thick skin because on Christmas Eve, everyone got a turn. Not many people get away with calling me "little Linda" and live to tell the tale.

Now I am aware that's not an appropriate tradition for a little kid, but what in the world am I going to hand down to her? A special evening with the Wii? Sitting at the table texting each other? I'm not sure, but this is the year that we start figuring it out. We'll start with food. Like anyone from the South knows, food can pretty much fix anything. Especially if it's both dough and fried. I don't care if I have to drag everyone kicking and screaming to fucking brunch, I Goddamn will. Don't test me. I'm making memories here people.