Easter was always a great holiday when I was growing up. We'd have Easter baskets with jelly beans and chocolate eggs in colorful foil, with a big chocolate bunny. We'd dye hard-cooked eggs and then our parents would hide them around the house. I remember that a faint hint of the color would always show up on the white of the eggs when you'd crack them open and eat them.
And we always made a beautiful Easter-egg tree, saving half-shells and decorating them with ric-rac and ribbons, filling them with little chicks (not real ones) or flowers and hanging them on a carefully chosen branch. With a little Easter grass around the base, it made a spectacular dinner-table centerpiece.
My mother would bring out from its hiding place, for its once-a-year appearance, an old purple egg with elaborate pysanky decorations. You could shake it gently and hear the mummified yolk rattling around inside.
We also had these wonderful hollow sugar eggs (actually I think they were plastic) with a little viewing window at one end so you could peep inside and see the charming little diorama of an Easter bunny and his helpers. (You can replicate them, sort of; do a search for "panorama Easter eggs.")
One whiff of hyacinth and I'm back to those long-ago Easter Sundays.
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