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At Easter, apparently, in the UK the tradition is an Easter-egg hunt and also plying one’s children with massive chocolate Easter eggs. I believe we do the hunt bit in some parts of Canada, but this sort of thing seemed to have missed The Mom’s close and watchful eye.

The idea of an Easter egg hunt has always thrilled me. There, in the garden, or if it was happening in Canada this year, amongst the snowbanks, or perhaps indoors, would lie brightly coloured little bits of chocolate. And you would just rustle about the house in search of them. There really does seem like nothing better.

A couple of years ago, myself and two friends, hired a cottage down in Cornwall over the Easter weekend. We were all very excited, and they are good friends and know what I’m like and so, on the Saturday night, after I’d gone to bed, one or both of them, both I suspect, stayed up and laid me out an Easter egg hunt which also included the sort of brightly coloured chicks that you get in a pound shop. My landlady gave me a box of them last year and I’m itching to get them out again to enjoy. They have a great texture and an entire box of them looks so ridiculous, it really does tickle me pink.

But anyhow. So around our rental cottage, which was a main house area but with a kitchen in a separate building up a bit of a path that was communal. It’s Cornwall, it’s not meant to make a lot of sense. Anyhow, so throughout the main house and in the kitchen, my pals put eggs where they thought I’d find them, in places that were obviously tricky and in some spots I didn’t notice (one of these people is quite tall and she sometimes forgets that I am a shrimp). In the morning, when I awoke a good two hours before they did, and clearly shuffled toward the coffee maker I’d brought down from London with me (you can’t be too careful with coffee preparations, especially when in the UK and on holiday) and I saw the eggs. They were the really great old school ones that come in a net bag from a WH Smith’s or likewise, cost about a pound, and are covered in bright shiny foil. The kind The Mom will never give me because they are 99.9% sugar and badness. Obviously, I adore them.

The eggs on this one morning actually stopped me from making coffee immediately. I believe I squeed about the place, shoving them in my pockets and then depositing them in a bowl next to the fuzzy chicks on the kitchen table. I was so proud of having found most of them, utterly delighted and charmed that my friends would go to the trouble. It was great.

Having benefitted enormously in spirit from having a taste of a British (we were in Cornwall, it counts) Easter tradition, when I learned a friend of mine had never done the traditional North American Easter egg colouring, I went to every effort in procuring a kit so that she could try it out. Not much effort because yes, I jet rang The Mom up and asked her to send it, but they don’t have them here so how else was I meant to get it over?

When my friend opened the whole thing up, she too squeed with delight. She looked through all the random stuff that comes with the kits nowadays, the plastic holders that never work, the stickers, the weird cardboard game that is obviously meant for three-year- olds or drunken adults on a sugar bender and was utterly charmed by the whole thing.

So even though when I am home in Canada over the easter weekend, which is quite rare these days, and The Mom still refuses to make me an Easter basket, citing that frankly quite weak line that at 38 years of age, I am too old for such things, this had more than made up for it. Because the week after Easter my friend will be eating the weirdly coloured boiled eggs for her lunch that always remind me of being a kid in the best possible way.