This is the kind of family I come from: On Good Friday we dress subduedly for service, cry, and meditatively discuss with each other the Stations of the Cross; on Easter Sunday we dress our brightly best for service, jubilantly sing “Christ the Lord is Risen Today,” and feast with extended family. But on Holy Saturday, or Easter Eve, or, perhaps solely in the case of my family, Unholy Saturday, our cups runneth right on over, we go way the hell off-color, and, somehow, we get ready for the next day’s celebration.
And I love my family and my time with them so much, I decided to document this year’s pre-feast festivities with you. Remember/be warned: These are the people whence I came. You’re welcome/I’m sorry.
I’m pretty sure our “beginning break” lasted a good hour and thirteen minutes. We then worked for about ten minutes before ordering pizza. And then we got shit done. But we got it done.
Remember these cookies– they factor largely (inappropriately) into the evening’s events.
Turns out amaretto works quite well as both a baking accompaniment and a device with which to lessen the sting of your mother’s wildly unfounded insults.
Don’t even ask who the amazingly gifted people were that my mom just insulted. It’s too embarrassing that she still holds her music-school-dropout daughter’s talent in such hyperbolic esteem.
While my mom is busy figuring out where in the hell people have hidden from her the elusive last four forks, I am wracking my brain for memories of AP and/or Chicago style and agonizing over whether scotch is capitalized when referring to an alcoholic beverage.
No singer-songwriters, no indie rock. My mom and I just do not understand each other’s musical tastes. (Later in the night I intentionally switch to country, her least favorite genre, and get no amusing irritation in return at all. She has beaten me at my own game. And perhaps accurately categorized me as jackass.)
And if you’re not drinking, now’s the time. My mom’s imagination is about to get very Hannibal Lecter.
We maybe are both beginning to lose our grip a little now because even after this, I leave preparations for the children’s activity to her.
Finally the famed cookies are done, look mostly like when my dad makes them, and smell like an Italian bakery, which is a less-sacrilegious way of saying: