matching tracksuits

The guests have left. The Girl has fallen asleep behind me.

Certainly it’s exhaustion from yesterday’s activities: with two girls her age arriving in the early afternoon, the Girl was a bundle of hyperactivity.

“We’re going to run there and here and there and here!” L proclaimed just before the girl’s arrival.

After eating an enormous lunch, that’s just what they did as they searched for eggs.

The younger girls were overwhelmed with excitement each and every time they found an egg. Their joy was a lovely thing, but it meant that the older children had more time to find eggs: they were very utilitarian in their celebrations, whooping on their way to the next egg instead of stopping to show off their discoveries.

Slow and steady might win the race in parables, but in the cut-throat reality of an Easter egg hunt, slow and steady wins only a light basket.

Often, though, the younger girls trailed behind the older children, following in almost lock-step.

“Honey, why don’t you look in different places rather than following her?” I asked L. “You’re just going to find the places where she’s already found the eggs.”

She thought about if for a moment, then continued with her method.

Still, despite the age difference, the little ones found several eggs, often simultaneously.;j

But the prize, the big egg, the egg L had been excited about all weekend, the egg that L proclaimed she simply must have — well, too much celebration for life’s little successes can give time for others to search out the big surprises.

And as I anticipated, it left poor L devastated. She stopped her own search and sat down for some sad alone time (also known as pouting).

But all was soon well. L’s disappointments rarely last longer than a few minutes, especially when the “offending” party shows some sympathy.

Unless I am the offending party — then the grudge lasts a few minutes longer.

Holy Saturday in Polish is “Wielka Sobota”, which translates to “Great Saturday” (though not “great” as a synonym for “fantastic”). It’s the final day of preparation for Wielkanoc, which translates to “Great Night.” But nestled in the hustle and chaos of cooking, cleaning, ironing, and fretting is a great (in this case, synonymous with “fantastic”) tradition: the blessing of the Easter baskets.

Dressed in the traditional outfits of Podhale and armed with two baskets overflowing with food for Easter breakfast, we headed to the church early in order to get our obligatory Easter family portrait.

When we entered the church, the Girl was fascinated: so many baskets, so many colored eggs — which to choose? Only a quick eye and a quicker hand kept the Girl from pillaging and plundering.

The baskets tell another story, though. The church wasn’t filled, but there were enough pockets of English conversation in the generally Polish-expat crowd that it became obvious that others see the value and beauty of this tradition.

The priest, Father Theo, certainly likes the tradition. He positively beamed as he spoke, and the joy of his kind embrace of the tradition was infectious.

So contagious was his joy that he managed to talk a young lady into coming up to read the passage about the Passover tradition. No practice, no warning, just a kind smile and a complement about her dress.

Another kind word and all the kids in traditional costumes joined Father Theo.

After the blessing, it was a free-for-all,

on both sides of the lenses. As I was taking a picture, I felt the crowd gathering about me. I realized the real picture was about ten steps behind me.

Shortly thereafter, the shot was about twenty steps in front of me.

And when you’re carrying around a large DSLR, everyone asks you for a picture.

Then again, Father Theo has good reason: his camera is a Canon that lacks a screen on the back and, rumor has it, records the pictures on a thin plastic film. I don’t believe it myself, but I can attest to the camera’s lack of a LCD screen. How in the world does he preview his pictures?

How does he know, for example, that some outside shots need a little over-exposure?

How would he’d managed to slide his hand back into his pocket, concealing the remote shutter release?

Or know that he’d captured the petals of spring blossoms falling snow?

Or be sure that he’s caught the conference of Polish women?

“Nonsense!” the Girl would declare. “All that matters is the tree I see the boys climbing and my first chance to try it for myself.” With a nervous father always close at hand.

In the end, the best that could be said about such a busy day can’t be said with words.

Happy Almost-Easter to all.

Polish Good Friday is a day of baking and cooking, of arranging, cleaning, and preparing.

Theoretically, the house should be turned upside down, shaken well, then scrubbed top to bottom. It’s sort of like Christmas cleaning. Since I can’t bake (or at the very lease, K wouldn’t let me try on Easter), the cleaning was my responsibility.

And I certainly didn’t mind. Just look at the kitchen list for yesterday:

• pâté,
• four babkas,
• a regular cake,
• two salads, and
• cauliflower soup.

There were also flowers to arrange.

And on to tomorrow: basket blessing, more cleaning more cooking — seems we need a holiday.

It’s an annual event at our house: the Easter egg painting party. We’ve had some large crowds for it in past years, but this year, it was a family affair.

The Girl loves painting, so we weren’t surprised when she ended up working on eggs for well over an hour. She approached the task with a Jackson Pollock eye: layers and seeming chaos were the themes of her eggs.

As was “getting paint all over oneself.” But what’s the fun of painting if you don’t expand the canvas?

K took a more disciplined approach.

Yesterday was Easter: it was time for a party. What’s a better way to celebrate anything than to be with family and friends?

Naturally, there’s a lot of preparation before hand. My job (other than smoking the tenderloin): deviled eggs. I’ll admit: it was the first time I’d made them, and I was an utter disaster when it came to peeling eggs.

Still, they turned out well.

K made at least a million sauces to go with the multitude of different eggs, meats, and veggies.

First to arrive were Nana and Papa — always a good and helpful thing. It keeps L busy and out from under foot.

By the time all the guests arrived, there was a tremendous amount of food. After every such party, I reaffirm my conviction that there should be a simple rule with parties: when you leave, take with you what remains of what you brought.

It wasn’t as if there weren’t enough people to eat it all. Guests in the kitchen;

guests out on the deck.

After all the food and libation, it’s a shame we all have to go to work tomorrow: things were cut entirely too short.