The Midults’ guide to… Easter Annabel Rivkin & Emilie Mcmeekan
EASTER. Not quite Christmas but disorientating nonetheless. And somehow a marker of where we are in life. That odd oasis of four days. We’ve had many, many Easters, each with a slightly different flavour. And here we are, in the middle of another one. Oof. What kind of Easter are you having? Is it…
It all starts on Bad Friday with a Bellini. Just a teeny, mostly juice Bellini. Or seven. Seven? Seven before the wine at lunch. And that is just a precursor to the tequila. Saturday’s hangover has to be swiftly remedied with a Bloody Mary and lunch is lamb, which means red, and dinner is... forgotten, which means vodka. Sunday is a holy day so… Holy cider. Out of respect. On Monday morning you go to hospital.
Share all the eggs. Let them have eggs. Chocolate bunnies are for the many, not the few. So yes let’s take the treats from his pile, and hers, too. Who cares if they’ve spent ages collecting their chocolate? It’s about egg-uality now.
You can no longer see anything without a feminist filter. Why do you have to talk about this Jesus guy all the time? It’s all men, men, men, isn’t it? Where are the women in the Easter narrative? There’s only Mary Magdalene and, well… You keep compulsively yelling, ‘Time’s up!’ during the egg hunt. Let’s smash the egg patriarchy.
There are egg-studded wreaths on every door and each table setting has been planned. No one can find their fork for tiny, plastic, marauding Easter chicks and handmade birds’ nests full of marbled eggs. Even the toast at breakfast is apprehended to be stuffed into handwoven pastel baskets. You’ve taken to wearing one of those fussy lower-body aprons over a tea dress and you may have a ribbon in your hair. Everyone else is miserable.
The Easter tummy is an amazing thing that miraculously expands, so you can just keep going. Little smoked salmon-y things on pancake-y mouthfuls. Roast everything and chocolate croissants and hot chocolate and boxes of chocolate and eggs, eggs, eggs. Posh ones, cheap ones, vast ones, and someone brought fudge and you have a thing for fudge. This is why foie gras is an abomination. You’re basically force-feeding yourself and you DON’T KNOW WHY.
You’re over it. So over it. Over everyone. You feel fat and sad. You hate your clothes and your job and why is spring so depressing? And if God exists then why is he letting all the terrible injustices happen? You loathe hot cross buns and you had a particularly searing therapy session on Maundy Thursday that was all about your mother. If there was an Over-easter Anonymous helpline, you’d be calling it. As it is, you just stay in bed. Why is Easter telly so rubbish?
Time to roll up your sleeves and spend four days remodelling the house and the garden. Starting with the kitchen and sorting out the drawer. Take everything out: all the Mexican pesos, 25 AAA batteries, some twine and a trowel. Which reminds you of the flower bed that you have been wanting to dig for ages. Earth everywhere – nothing so gratifying as a bit of Easter gardening. Bored with that? Well, you can fix the wonky shelf in the hall. Remove all the post and keys and single gloves and broken satnavs – place on the floor. Remove shelf. Now unable to fix shelf. Anyone who comes over asks if you’ve been burgled. You call the handy man at 8.01 on Tuesday morning. themidult.com
Eggs, eggs, eggs. Posh ones, cheap ones, vast ones, and someone brought fudge. You’re basically force-feeding yourself and you DON’T KNOW WHY