christ, let's eat a ham.

i know... i keep changing the blog template and its annoying.. it annoys me too. i know shit about html code otherwise i'd just make one myself. instead i just keep searching for the best template i can find, and my opinion of 'best' keeps changing.

easter is approaching. one week away. this year is going so quickly.

easter was always difficult for me as a child. misleading. confusing. when i was very young, perhaps two or three, we lived in a detached studio in back of my grandparents' house. i remember waking up one easter morning so excited to find eggs. but, then i found one sitting in a green coffee cup on the floor in the corner beside the frame of the front door. had the front door been open, i wouldn't have seen it. but there it was, staring me in the face.

why is there an easter egg in a coffee cup on the floor? who would DO that? and as the thought worked its way through my little head, the only reasonable explanation was that the easter bunny had DONE that. i mean, he is, after all, the only one that hides eggs for little girls and he HAD to have left an egg in a coffee cup.

but who's coffee cup? again, the only explanation was that it was the easter bunny's coffee cup. i mean, he comes at night when everyone is sleeping, so it couldn't have been my mother's coffee cup. its not like he hangs out and reads the paper with my mom at the dining table in the morning waiting for me to wake up. if that were the case i'd be more like the cadbury bunny.

but... the easter bunny doesn't drink coffee. and surely wouldn't just leave his cup on the floor... only dirty people do that... oh... ...

and that day the easter bunny became six feet tall, hairy in a dirty sort of way, with a coffee cup in one hand, a cigar in the other and a five o'clock shadow. it's not been quite the same since.

egg hunting was also an awkward thing for me. the thrill of doing it once was never enough so i'd badger my mom to hide the eggs over and over again. i could tell it annoyed her at times.

since i was not raised overly religious or part of a local church, we always celebrated easter at home, simply with egg hunting and a nice dinner. no more, no less. i do remember one year, also at a very young age, that we participated in a big easter picnic in some park somewheres... (who the hell knows, i could have dreamed this whole thing...) but i remember there were tons of families there. an organized egg hunt for all the kids and i felt guilty finding eggs cuz i felt like i should leave them for everyone else to find. and there was an egg toss, that i wanted to play but i think i remember i couldn't. or wouldn't, i'm not sure. i think i remember sticking to my mother like glue and i had a terrible time. social anxiety at such a young age. i should have known hermit ism was in my blood.

and then, there's always the egg that you never find, but never smell rotten. well, you know my philosophy on that one.. hybrid soldiers for the chicken revolution and all that. holidays are silly to me. christ is resurrected, lets eat a ham. weird. we do strange things for strange reasons. but i'll not go there now.

i spent the afternoon on the couch, flipping between HGTV and the E True Hollywood Story of Home Improvement. That is a sad, gloomy day. so i napped. and woke extremely confused. i woke up on the opposite end of the couch from which i started. i missed a phone call, but i got a second chance later on. i think i got drunk dialed by a girl, lol.

and what is it about french toast that seems so consoling? is it because its one of the very first things we learn to cook as children? i feel bad, i know! i'll make french toast. .. well its never as good as it sounds, and it actually makes you feel worse, cuz for gods sakes you made it when you were six, why does it taste like ass now? but each time you feel a little down, french toast seems like the cure. and you just can't seem to remind yourself that it failed the last ten times you tried it, so just dismiss that brainchild before it hatches. no. instead you cook it up and spit out the first bite. the dog wouldnt even eat it.

its just one of the many silly kitchen-esque things that go on my list of 'what the hell were you thinking?' a couple of weeks ago i thought it a good idea to buy a bag of potatoes. you know, cuz i have that three tier red wire haging basket with nothing in it, so i should fill it with a dozen potatoes... well, grandma used to always have potatoes around the house... i know, because i used to steal them and hide them in the top drawer of the hutch so they would grow eyes... and then i'd forget about them, and someone would go for a table cloth and pull out a rotten potato.

but i digress... i bought a sack of potatoes because it seemed like the right thing to do. i picked up a whole bag of potatoes like it was natural instinct and brought them home and filled up my little baskets and havn't touched them since. my husband keeps teasing me about it. why the hell did you buy a whole sack of potatoes? .. my grandma always used to have potatoes around the kitchen. .. uh-huh. but did she COOK them? .. well, yes, but thats not the point. .. so i keep threatening him with potato based dinners, though i cant think of anything other than potato pancakes, and if they are anything like my french toast we'll be ordering pizza instead.

so they still sit there. hanging from the ceiling in their little red wire baskets, their entire existance in the hands of gravity. every now and again he looks up at them and just shakes his head. so if you have any good potato recipes send them my way.