Editor’s letter
IF YOU READ my monthly ramblings you’ll know how much I treasure family traditions. I hoard rituals and happy memories the way I used to hoard Easter eggs as a child. I’d keep my stash in my wardrobe for weeks after the hunt – precious chocolate roosters and rabbits too beautiful to unwrap. Sometimes I kept them for so long that when I eventually did unwrap them, the chocolate had bloomed and was white and blotchy.
But the last decade has seen such massive changes to our once little family that I’ve had to learn to embrace new traditions. I’ve had to learn to eat the chocolate in the moment. I’ve had to grow up.
Nine years ago, my brother married his California girl and they had Declan, my Supermario and spaghetti-loving nephew who doesn’t much like sweets or chocolates. At Easter they have a big hunt in their beautiful garden, complete with beribboned baskets for the children, and set a long table for lunch outside.
Next, I married the Salad Dodger and became a stepmother to two fully grown boys who, over the years, have gotten as much pleasure out of our Easter egg hunts as any pre-schooler. I discovered this when I invited my father and stepmom round for Easter lunch and hid some eggs outside for a laugh. The boys were totally enchanted, but it was my dad who circled our tiny garden like a madman looking for chocolate. At one point he was dangling from a branch with one leg in the pool trying to reach a Lindt chicken. I have the pictures to prove it.
And then last year, my little sister married the Prodigious Baker. And auspiciously, their very first anniversary falls on Easter Sunday this year.
Romy and John got married in a little church within walking distance of their home and had their fabulous, Agatha Christie-styled wedding party right across the road at the iconic Vineyard Hotel, which, incidentally, is where my parents had their wedding reception in 1973. It was a party filled with tulips and tuberoses, Supermario cake toppers and the most beautiful bride I have ever seen. (They also had the longest list of special dietary requirements that I’ve ever seen, but I’ll save that for another ramble.)
So this year, for Easter, we will be eating roast lamb and reminiscing about the wedding at my sister’s in-laws, Andrew and Saskia, who have the most perfect garden for an Easter egg hunt – with rolling lawns, rose beds and secret arbours, huge banks of hydrangeas and a lot less chance of my father falling into the pool while charging around in search of hen’s eggs. Last year Holly couldn’t walk yet; this year, my dad will have competition.
“At one point my dad was dangling from a branch with one leg in the pool trying
to reach a Lindt chicken”