I don’t recall if I posted about this before; if so, it’s been a while. I’m sure I have mentioned in the past that I don’t eat eggs. There’s no allergy involved; I simply don’t like them. I know I ate them as a kid because all kids do and I don’t know when I determined I didn’t like them.Anyway, I grew up with the tradition of dying Easter eggs although we didn’t go in for the extra decorating. And as is tradition, leftover eggs that didn’t get inadvertently stepped on were later consumed in some form or the other.

Moving forward to when son was old enough to get into the egg hunting mode, I may or may not have gone the traditional route once, but maybe not as he was not a boiled egg eater (strictly scrambled) and there wasn’t anyone else to eat them. Plastic Easter eggs filled with different candies were the perfect choice not to mention easy to pack away and be re-used at least a couple of times. The memory jogged though was one Easter when we were at my parents. The eggs had been carefully hidden in the front yard and as son was again the only “hunter” it was merely a matter of remembering how many had been hidden and where in case he needed a little assistance. My parents and I went onto the driveway, me with my mug of coffee, son with his Easter basket, and “Papaw” ready to assist in the hunt. Son was either four or five years old and as he prepared to step onto the grass, he turned to me and Mother and said, “Mom, you and Granny stay here. Papaw and I will get the eggs because this is man’s work.”

Daddy did look slightly chagrined as I tried to keep a straight face. All the eggs were found fairly quickly.