A Love Note To Easter

Easter holds a special place in my heart. Most would say Christmas or Thanksgiving, but Easter has always been my first holiday love. Do you see me in that blue dress? It was Easter morning - 1988. I loved that fish tank in our dining room too. And, despite that dress, haircut, and an expression which could only indicate my thighs were already chafing and on fire under that blue dress … I am still capable of believing in springtime renewal and hope.

So, why, you may ask, do I love Easter?

Well, growing up, it was not about the candy because I was chubby (see above photo) and received fruit baskets (in lieu of candy) a few years in a row. Likely, why I also look angry in the photo (aside from the thigh friction). To be quite honest, I was 7 years old and I was all in on this holiday for a few undisturbed nibbles of pink, supple, juicy, lamb. That’s right. I had meat fantasies at 7 years old. And, really, not much has changed in my life over the course of 37 years. But, aside from the meat, I loved the packed tables that were covered in my grandmothers hand sewn tablecloths - surrounded by loud talking, ok, screaming. I still had to do chores, setting and clearing the table - but I didn’t care. My aunts, uncles and cousins gathered alongside my family in my grandparents basement to feast and binge on meat after spending too many Lenten Friday’s withholding from the stuff. It was always warm in the basement, my dresses were too tight, my thighs rubbed together because stocking season was on the way out - and my mom would buy me delicate eyelet trimmed socks to wear with my white shoes. My little hairy legs exposed and my thighs wishing for bike shorts. Sure, a few hours before church and dinner I woke up to open a fruit basket, but I could look forward to my older cousins coloring with me - and that was enough. I looked forward to the fullness of the house without gifts. And, I looked forward to the food.

My grandmothers Pizza Rustica (Italian meat pie) marbled with prosciutto, soppressata, provolone, ricotta and eggs - all baked in a pastry shell - well - it was the food that one dreams about. It’s the food I still dream about. Pizza Rustica is seductively salty, fatty, naughty - pure cholesterol - and all of the things you’re told not to eat but really, really enjoy. It’s one of the foods of our family tradition. The kinda food that is shared and then eaten in 5 minutes without coming up for air because you fear your gavone brothers or uncles might get a second slice before you finished your first. Eating Pizza Rustica on Easter Sunday was the ultimate race to a salty and meaty finish line to scoff down MORE. The Pizza Rustica was served alongside oil steamed artichokes with olives, meats, cheeses, and hardboiled eggs. What followed for dinner was lamb with roasted potatoes and a very traditional Neapolitan goat dish prepared with peas, eggs and salty pecorino cheese to finish. Sounds strange, maybe, but it was delicate, creamy and everything unexpected for baby goat meat covered in eggs. These are the memories of my childhood; which can induce an incident of high blood pressure, and or tears of nostalgia, simply through the sheer power of thought.

But wait, let’s not forget dessert. Dessert cannot be forgotten, nor would I want to. Who wants to forget dessert? The Pastiera di Grano (grain pie) is, essentially, the love child of an Italian cheesecake (say no to Philadelphia and hello to ricotta) and a sfogliatelle. If you don’t know what a sfogliatelle is you have not lived and I highly suggest you go try one and begin living. Immediately. Sfogliatelle are the Neapolitan pastry of the Gods; and I’m not saying this because of my heritage or because I went to Naples and ate my weight in them - but because they taste like 3pm smiles on a humid afternoon with a very slightly citrusy note. They harken memories of sharing espresso with Uncle Tony in Miami. Cutting into a sfogliatelle that’s been reheated in the toaster will never disappoint. Even leftover or frozen - a well made sfogliatelle can reveal its soft beauty and citrus scent. Food really can transport us. It’s a time machine. Every single bite. This pie brings back all of those memories of taste, smell and more.

Traditions in meal time have carried me through change. I smile through times that no longer exist as loved ones have passed on and family has moved away. The meals are nostalgic. I can look at photos and see my grandmother in a pie or plate of goat. I can close my eyes and go anywhere that food has been involved. She (grandma) lives in my heart, in my mind and - well - in my belly, I suppose. My family, everyone, lives in my belly. Maybe it’s not peri-menopause after all?

Last Easter I cooked a beautiful leg of lamb for my family since my mother was only a week post operation. It was a lamb that I believe grandma saw from above and smiled as she looked down. And, this year, my mother is well and will cook. With that said, I plan enjoy every last morsel and moment of still being cooked for by my mother. Like a child. Like that little girl in the blue dress, but no longer angry and wearing pants. Chafing is the pits.

May your weekend and your Easter be bright. Notes of spring, longer days and the promise of newness surrounds us now. I hope you enjoy all of the moments and memories - new and old. And, please, if your child is chubby - do not give them a fruit basket for Easter. I beg of you. They’re only going to end up sneaking chocolate in the long run; or eating all of the lamb they can get their tiny hands on … while everyone or no one is watching. And, then, they’ll write stories about it and share them with the world.