Easter '07

Easter with the Polish family is unlike anything I could possibly explain. I've tried. I really have. But no matter how I articulate how loud and crazy and chaotic it is, no matter how much I emphasize the egg fights and 12 plates of meat at 9:30 in the morning, people just don’t comprehend it until they witness it. And as soon as they agree to participate, the entire family shudders in fear. God, these poor guests have no idea what they’re getting themselves into.

This year, we even had a heated discussion about how to reduce the stress level and quantity of food for Easter... but finally came to a consensus that absolute chaos is as much part of the tradition as egg fights and Easter baskets.

So, the table was lined in perfect pastels and splashed in Easter themes — bunny candles and chic ornaments to boot. As always, we began preparing the food (some of which was purchased in the Polish deli) days in advance. As always, we left our doors open to whatever fools wanted to wander in. And as always, I did my best to prepare them.

“Really, the food’s disgusting,” I warn. “Seriously, you don’t have to eat it,” I assure. “Honestly, we make French toast too — for the guests. Feel free to have that instead; we won’t consider it rude,” I console. (Of course, this is only partially true. We make the French toast and promise it’s ok to eat it... but it’s not. It’s really just there for decoration.) Each time, the guest endures the morning with varying degrees of smiles — some forced, some sincere. (Come to think of it, I once invited my boyfriend of two years to Easter breakfast... and looking back, it’s no wonder we broke up shortly afterwards.)

This year, we had two guests. Only one survived the food.

Jon Trotta, an long-time friend, was brave enough to try the barscht and engage the family in conversation… and he even pretended to enjoy both. In fact, he was so convincing in his thank yous and compliments, I’m tempted to believe him.

And then there was Chrissy. Poor girl. We talked about endless servings of meat. We foolishly told her how the broth is made... from meat juice. Hell, we even cooked the kielbasa in front of her the evening before, making her sick to her stomach as she nibbled on Chinese vegetables.

See, Chrissy’s a vegetarian.

And props to Chrissy, for putting on a smile as plate after plate of meat passed her by. For laughing at endless teasing from the men in my family who insist on eating not one bowl of meat at 10am, but returning for seconds… and then thirds. And for sitting through Polish Easter with the family, because — vegetarian or not — after 15+ years of friendship, that’s what she is: family.


Ok... time for chocolate pudding pie... : )