Jesus & The Egg: Two things I worship on Easter

Unlike my old friend Aristotle, I fully embrace the notion that the Earth encircles the Sun, except for one day. On that much anticipated Sunday every spring, my world revolves around another spherical object.

The Egg. (Cue dramatic music).

Okay I'll admit, a little anticlimactic, but the many traditions that make Easter such an enjoyable holiday for my family encompass the idea of the egg.

It begins the same each year. As I groggily blink my way into consciousness on that morning, it sits patiently on my bedside table, waiting to be discovered. The same woven basket my mother has used since I was child, filled to the brim with treasures. As years go by the contents have slowly evolved from jump ropes and Play Doh to lip balm and Linkin Park CD's, but my enthusiasm never wavers. I'll patiently examine my new gifts, nibbling on a jelly bean or two and feeling a little guilty for biting a bit off my chocolate bunny's ear. (I went through a serious white chocolate phase in middle school, but have since come to my senses). Somewhere in this basket, the purple bag I have been so looking forward to see since January awaits.

Inside the bag, Cadbury Mini Eggs, the most enticing of all confections. Smooth milk chocolate inside a crisp vanilla shell, these pastel colored delights are my absolute favorite part of Easter. Year after year, my sisters and I each receive a jumbo sized bag in our baskets, which despite our best efforts, never lasts more than a week. Upon first bite I instantly materialize into a state of sugary nirvana. Across the hallway, all is quiet, and I know that Julia and Emma too have succumbed to the bliss that is eating Cadbury Mini Eggs. My mother knows not to put out the cereal and milk that morning.

Putting on your Sunday best takes on a whole new meaning on Easter. The church service my family attends becomes a bit of a fashion show, all the girls proudly displaying the latest floral prints and the most vibrant of spring colors. The boys and young men look disgruntled in freshly starched suits. It's enough to get me through the seemingly endless hymns and readings. I need to get back to devouring my purple bag.

The next best part of the day is the grand feast we have at my grandparents' house. As soon as I enter the kitchen the mouthwatering aroma of honey baked ham fills my nostrils. I am greeted by aunts, uncles, and cousins, but we are quickly shooed out by Nina, who looks overwhelmed as she places a basket of rolls on the already crowded table of various dishes and platters. I don't know why she worries, her holiday meals are never less than perfect.

"Do you need some help?" I ask Nina innocently. She already knows my true motive.

"Don't even think about it," she warns me, pointing a serving spoon to a platter on the table. Ah, there they are. My second favorite type of egg, deviled ones. Like Cadbury eggs, I only get to experience these once a year. My grandfather and I will infamously stalk the kitchen every Easter Sunday, looking to sneak a few before the meal begins. Like most grandmothers, mine has eyes in the back of her head and our attempts are rarely successful. Nina always spends the day before Easter piping the boiled egg halves with a mixture of yolk, mustard, and mayo and finishes them off with a sprinkling of paprika. Deviled eggs are a light, fluffy hors d'oeuvre, and I'm never satisfied with just one.

People talk about Thanksgiving food comas. In my family, Easter food comas are even more severe. My uncle Chris retreats to the living room to pass out on the couch, my cousins snoozing in the den, my sisters and I lazily sprawled across the dining room floor. Nina will walk around the house, picking up empty plates and shaking her head at each of us. But I think she secretly takes it as a compliment. Her food is that good.

Later, my cousins enjoy an egg hunt, scrambling around the backyard trying to locate the colored plastic eggs jingling with quarters and in one, a twenty dollar bill for the lucky finder. It has been a day full of simple pleasures, laughter and joking, good food and family. There is something indescribably comforting about tradition. In a world that's always changing, this will always be constant.

After goodbyes to family members who have traveled from out of town and hugs from Nina and Papa, I walk briskly to Mom's car as the sun begins to set, dipping beneath clouds that have taken on the color of sherbet. I allow myself only a moment to appreciate the beauty. After all, there is a half-eaten purple bag at home that has my name all over it.