Lovelihood

Last night's egg painting, and the scrap paper laid underneath, was left overnight to dry. I'm unsure which I like more.

I'm stealing a page from my Valentine playbook and stitching up some felt goodies for the kids' easter baskets. Little Peeps-esque bunnies stuffed with fabric odds'n'ends (no big dent made in that stash here), and felty-eggy pockets, which, now that I'm looking at them, I designed to be more oval than ovate. But, stuffed with gummies and candies (which Bear assures me daily that she likes), I'm sure I'll hear no complaints.

Those balloons from the other night got the papier mache treatment today, a day when our one-thing-at-a-time kitchen was not required for food preparation (dinner out = craft cooking). Previous years, you might recall, have had us shopping for those wooden eggs for easterly decorating. But I feel that's run its course, and I really don't know what I'd do with another dozen wooden eggs knocking around these parts. And I already had the balloons stashed in a drawer. So papier mache seemed like a good way to go, although deviating from the familiar craft routes always leaves me with the is-this-going-to-be-total-disaster pre-regrets. But Bear stumbled down from her nap to find me elbow-deep in my cooked-up paste of flour and water and newspaper strips with a dozen slathered mini-ballons strung up to dry, and she simultaneously demanded a cup of milk and one of the eggs. So I'll call it an early success.

When I was a kid there wasn't anything much more satisfying than an a common hard-boiled egg steeped in some briny stew stuffs, mashed up into rice and sprinkled with soy sauce for good measure. It seems that generously salted eggs have a sort of universal appeal. The Mr. has a friend who, living in Sweden the past year, brought back for homecoming souvenirs little tubes of Kalles Kaviar. Spreadable fish roe in a tube. One of those cultural culinary oddities, like the Vegemite of Australia and the deep fried Oreos of carnivals that, I suppose, seem perfectly normal to their native audiences. It'd been sitting in the fridge since The Mr. brought it home, until I decided to break it out for lunch today, and decided it hit more or less the same flavor notes of my childhood stewed eggs.

I'm told this is how it is done.

The Boy makes good use of his basket, filling it to the brim at the zoo's annual egg hunt. www.lovelihood.com

The Boy makes good use of his basket, filling it to the brim at the zoo's annual egg hunt. www.lovelihood.com