Do you celebrate Easter? If not, what’s wrong with you? I’m kidding. I judge no one for not celebrating or celebrating anything. As I mentioned, I grew up in a cult and we didn’t celebrate Easter. Not that not celebrating Easter means you’re a member of a cult. It might just mean you’re Jewish or Hindu or Muslim, or it might mean you’re a member of a cult. Really, that’s between you and your Rabbi or Buddha or the guy who’s telling you to drink the purple Koolaid.
None of that matters for the purposes of my story. I would, however, suggest not drinking the Koolaid at religious functions.
I celebrate Easter. We always go to our best friend’s house for Easter because none of us have family that live nearby. We’ve become surrogate families to each other, which is actually quite nice.
It’s always my job to bake desserts for Easter. I love to bake. I’d bake all day every day if my gall bladder didn’t get all pissy with me every time I eat a lot of fat.
My gall bladder is a raging bitch.
As I mentioned previously, I had been doing some baking on Armageddon Saturday, which will forevermore be how I refer to the day before Easter. After Virginia Slims Man returned from running errands and saved me from committing the Great Skillet Massacre of 2012, I decided to do a bit more baking.
I made deviled eggs, and I found it ironic to be making something called deviled eggs on Armageddon Saturday in anticipation for Resurrection Sunday. Have you ever thought about that? Why is an egg named after Satan traditionally served on Easter Sunday? I bet that’s something Dana Carvey’s Church Lady would consider.
You should Google it.
I had prepared egg whites for a meringue. I had squeezed one and a half cups of key lime juice for three pies I was going to make. Do you know how long it takes to do this? About a bajillion hours. It’s like trying to get a cup of milk by squeezing an ant’s teat. I realize ants probably don’t have teats, but I don’t know a tiny milk-making mammal small enough to convey the amount of time and effort it took to get that key lime juice.
I also had a fridge full of groceries that I had purchased the day before in anticipation for my sister and her family’s arrival on Sunday night. They weren’t going to make it in time for Easter dinner, but my brother-in-law is a dessert lover so I wanted to have some desserts ready for when they arrived.
You’ll remember in my other post about Armageddon Saturday that I mentioned that no good can come from taunting Satan. You really need to listen to me when I tell you these things, because I know what I’m talking about. My dad’s a minister and that nearly makes me a biblical genius. (Yes, for many years he was a minister in a cult. Now he’s a minister not in a cult.)
After spending all Saturday evening drinking tequila and doing all kinds of prep work for Sunday, I went to bed.
I woke up the next morning with the intention of making cinnamon rolls for breakfast and then getting ready to go to church. I went into the kitchen to start making the cinnamon rolls and discovered that the refrigerator door had been left open overnight.
I personally think that Satan opened my fridge door and rearranged the contents of the door shelves so that the door would be ajar all night long. VSM tried to tell me that I’m just an idiot who put the tall bottle of ketchup on the side of the door that would cause it to bump up against the cheese drawer, thus not allowing the door to shut fully.
He’s such an ass for taking Satan’s side.
Well, apparently a crack is all Satan needs to breathe his hot, fetid breath into the fridge because the internal temperature of my fridge was a balmy 65 degrees. (Yes, I have a thermometer in my fridge and I check it daily. Does this really surprise you?)
You can lay out at 65 degrees. You can wear shorts at 65 degrees. You cannot store perishables at 65 degrees.
I’m pretty sure that Satan was snacking on a Hot Pocket, sitting on his couch in hell and getting a good chuckle at the freak-out that he was watching. More than likely, God was getting a kick out of it too.
In my disbelief and panic, I started touching everything in the fridge. The milk cartons were sweating. The lime juice was warm. The deviled eggs smelled like something that Satan’s actual chickens in hell would lay.
I went into full botulism-eradication mode and started dumping everything into the garbage can. Every bit of prep work I had done the day before was now sitting in a trash bag.
I do not know if key lime juice can grow bacteria that quickly, but in my mind it was already lethal. All of my opened condiments were tossed. I threw away the now-putrid deviled eggs and all of the lunch meat, cheeses, salads and vegetables that I had in my fridge.
I kept thinking about the children in Africa that my parents would tell me about every time I didn’t finish my dinner as a child, and I comforted myself in the fact that even starving children in Africa do not want the dysentery that comes from eating Satan’s rancid poultry.
So now my plans for Easter were changed drastically. Instead of the delicious homemade-ish cinnamon rolls that I was going to make using refrigerated crescent rolls that were now teeming with listeria, VSM ran to the doughnut shop and bought doughnuts.
And because my refrigerator was now empty of everything but an unopened jar of pickles and a new bottle of mustard, I had to spend Easter Sunday at the grocery store so that I could remake all of the desserts for Easter and also be able to feed my sister and her family that night.
Well, as it so happens, there aren’t a whole lot of grocery stores open on Easter morning, so I was forced to go to Walmart. I fully expected the store to be completely empty, but would you believe that the store was absolutely packed?
What the hell were all of these people doing in Walmart on Easter morning? Surely we didn’t all tick off Satan and wake up to a fridge full of warm food.
I tore around Walmart with a half-written list and threw groceries into the cart. I was so insane with insanity that I didn’t even have the time to check seals and pop-up buttons on jars. After rebuying all of the things I had bought two days earlier, I drove home and started dictating to my family members the things I needed them to do so that I’d get everything remade in time for Easter.
I was the Easter Nazi.
I had VSM squeezing key limes, boiling and peeling eggs and smashing yolks. I had The Good One cleaning up my messes and I had The Beast sitting in front of the TV watching whatever the hell he wanted. Probably Basic Instinct.
About 20 minutes before we were due to be at our friend’s house, I jumped in the shower. I’m very grateful that my friends have seen me at my absolute, unshowered, unmade-up worst because I do believe my appearance on Easter would have frightened babies. And Jesus. And baby Jesus.
After a very delicious dinner, we headed back home so that VSM could get ready to pick up my sister and her family. While he was gone, my two best friends came back to my house to hang out and let the kids play.
And to drink wine.
The Beast was eating some crackers and got a small piece stuck in his throat. Not enough to choke him, but enough to make him gag and cough. He managed to gag up the piece of cracker that was bothering him, and then, because it was Easter Sunday and because I had ticked off Satan, The Beast threw up. First, he threw up in my hand. Then when my hand overflowed, he threw up on the floor. Then my one friend grabbed a big metal bowl and he threw up the entire contents of his stomach into the bowl.
I know it was the entire contents of his stomach because I saw the rainbow sprinkles from his breakfast doughnut.
Just in case this hasn’t come up before, do not have kids unless you’re willing to catch vomit. There is not a mother in the world who hasn’t used her hands as a receptacle for the regurgitated contents of her child’s stomach.
I put The Beast in the shower and changed my vomit-splattered clothes while my two friends cleaned and disinfected my entire kitchen.
So the fiasco of my Easter has made me realize that I have the two best friends in the world, because not everyone would be willing to clean up your kid’s vomit.
I also have decided to taunt Satan no longer. It’s too expensive to replace the contents of my fridge and I can’t stand the smell of his eggs. Plus I’m not very fond of the way vomit feels in my hands.