Looking forward to Easter candy
Two chocolate bunnies hop into the only bar open on Easter Sunday. One, who is missing his ears, sits down at the bar, the other, who is missing his tail end, stands by him.
The bartender, looking upon this pathetic pair of lagomorphs, asks, “Rough day, gentlemen?”
“What? I can't hear you,” replies one bunny.
“Yeah, my butt hurts,” says the other.
OK, go ahead, roll your eyes. My family does every year when I tell this silly joke.
Speaking of chocolate bunnies with missing parts, every Easter there is an alarming surge of rabbit auricular amputations. Sounds horrifyingly deranged but in the common vernacular all it means is biting off the ears of the 90 million chocolate bunnies manufactured every year which is what
78% of Americans do after unwrapping the holiday treat. It's feet-first for 16% of the imbibing population with 6% bringing up the rear, so to speak, eating the tail end first. That leaves 2% who don't seem to care which part of the anatomy they start with so long as the chocolate gets into their mouth. I'm a 6 percenter.
An unquestionable majority of Americans, 86% in fact, prefer having a chocolatey delicious coney instead of a live one. Well duuuuuuuh these are the true believers in the goodness to be found nestled in the plastic grass of Easter baskets. I have to question the judgement and tastebuds of the remaining 14%. I mean seriously who can live without chocolate? Is life even worth living without chocolate? I think not.
Perhaps these folks prefer Peeps. Heaven only knows why but someone must as 700 million of these dyed egg white and sugar crimes against the tongue are stuffed into Easter baskets every year. How they gained popularity is a mystery to me. But despite their grossness factor people seem to love them.
My grandmother bought them by the basket load every year when they went on sale for half-price the Monday after Easter. I would accompany her to the various grocery stores to stock up and when we got home it was my job, which I gleefully undertook, to punch holes into their plastic wrapping. Once my task was complete, grandma would stack the boxes on top of the refrigerator so they could properly “cure” until the perfect state of staleness for eating was reached.
My darling daughter, who has refused to eat Peeps since she took her first, last and only bite of one when she was 3 years old, thoroughly enjoys “super sizing” them by putting them into the microwave and watching them swell and balloon up to enormous proportions into what she calls “Godzilla Peeps.” The delight, the sheer glee she gets out of this hasn't diminished in the 25 years we've been doing it and, I must admit, it has become one of my favorite holiday traditions, second only to eating bunny tails.
The number of Peeps that come hopping down the bunny trail every year pales in comparison to the 16 billion jelly beans that roll off the assembly line to take their place in baskets. Although jelly beans may be a more holiday appropriate treat than chocolate bunnies or marshmallow chicks since it's believed their center is a variation (an abortion?) of the Middle Eastern confection known as Turkish delight which dates back to biblical times, I don't like them, never have never will, especially the licorice ones which my mother used to put by the pound full in my basket. Took me years to realize she put them in there because she knew I didn't like them and would give them all to her. Sneaky, very sneaky.
While Americans commemorate the holiday with various confections held in baskets hidden by giant, mutant rabbits, in Bermuda, the holiday is marked with kite flying; in Corfu, Easter is a smashing holiday as resident celebrate by throwing ceramic objects — plates, jugs, casserole dishes, etc. — out their windows; and, in Norway it's all about Påskekrimmen, the tradition of reading, watching and listening to crime stories and detective thrillers.
In addition to symbolizing the whole spring fertility re-birth stuff; Easter eggs dyed and inscribed with a person's name and birthdate were honored as birth certificates in 19th Century German courts of law. They switched to paper certificates after several judges stamped the evidence with such vigor that it was smashed to smithereens and made the courtrooms stink of sulfur. Pee-you, or in this case, no more you.
In Czechoslovakia during Easter week it's supposedly good luck to beat your wife or your girlfriend with a “pomlázka,” a braided whip. This tradition originated with Orthodox Christians' spring blessing of the house observed by using a whip or a single branch to lightly hit livestock or family members. While the morphed Czech tradition may sound either abusive or kinky, depending on your perspective, apparently, it's not. In fact pomlázka, means “make young” and the idea behind the tradition is that anyone hit with the whip will be healthy and happy during the upcoming year. Sure they will, right after they've healed from their Easter whooping.
While I enjoy learning about and participating in others' customs, when it comes to Easter, I'm a traditionalist, perfectly happy to stick to chocolate bunny butts and exploding Peeps, thank you very much