this our hymn of grateful praise

This year was Year Seven of doing Greek Easter in the Burbs. Catholics say that seven years old is the age of reason, the age of distinguishing right from wrong and at which a person is held responsible for his or her actions. Well, this WASP has determined that her action will forever be to pursue wine and lamb and spanikopita over ham and frighteningly enormous Easter bunnies any old day. Luckily, the little girls in floaty dresses and frilly socks were all in hiding this year, all religions equally doomed by the unfortunate cold snap.

Greek Easter in the Burbs has been going on at my dear, dear friend Christina's house ever since freshman year of college and it serves as somewhat of a milestone in my mind. I still remember after our first year when I wrote an overly flowery thank-you note to her parents, who upon receiving it called Christina to make sure "Honey, your friend EJ? Is she okay?" And I had to explain to them how cool it was to me that after growing up in a college town, where my parents adopted students who worked for my mother and had them over for home-cooked meals and how as a kid I always looked up to these impossibly cool grown-up kids, that now, I got to BE one of those cool college kids who gets to go to a holiday meal at someone else's house! So yes, I'm fine, but thank you for asking. It's always a marvelous time with huge amounts of wine and food and affectionate conversations with her parents and her Nana, a wonderfully classy lady who is the kind of dame I hope to be in my twilight years.

I admit, I felt a little guilty when I woke up at 11:30 this morning and knew I'd missed church. If there is any time that a lapsed Christian like me should go to church it's Easter, with the brass orchestras and gentle sermons tailored to the inevitably large crowds. I like the religious part of Easter but the aftermath creeps me out a bit. We never did Easter very big in my family and I detest both ham and anthropomorphic rodents. The Greeks do an Easter I can get behind-- a highly esoteric and tradition-bound ceremony followed by getting drunk with close family and friends. And the hitting of the eggs, of course. Everyone takes a red-dyed egg and smacks them end to end with a neighbor, and the last person with an un-cracked egg gets good luck for a year. Kat won this year, and since she's getting married in five weeks it could not have gone to a better person.

There is a part of me that knows that Easter is about the resurrection of Christ and that part of me just aches that it cannot enthusiastically embrace the idea of a miracle. But old friends and moussaka and good wishes for the year ahead? Everyday or holy day, sign me up.