Here Comes Peter Cottontail
OK, so it's not really Peter Cottontail. It's my Hillbilly Husband
with a paper towel stuck in his pocket. Made you look! I almost
captioned it: Lefty, Righty, and Dopey Color Eggs. You can
guess who is whom. I really must work on my photography. I
keep cutting off heads and faces. Go figure!
Coloring eggs is not a simple feat at the Hillbilly Mansion. We
must have two of everything, or WWIII will ensue. HH has to
boss the kids so it looks like he is doing something useful. Then
it is over, and guess who cleans up the egg drippings and puts
them back in the cartons...Yep, the same person who set up the
egg cups and added the vinegar and made sure each child got
the same colors.
The kids were pleased with the results. Me too, until I went to bake
a cake and discovered that I needed 3 eggs. I had boiled 4 dozen
Saturday morning; 2 dozen for dyeing, and two dozen for deviling.
HH had to run to town to buy a dozen eggs. Of course, he was
mystified by the packaging and sale of eggs. On the shopping list,
I had just written 'eggs'. I had told him I needed some for the cake.
HH read the list, and asked,
How many eggs do you need?
Umm...they only sell them by the dozen. So buy a dozen.
Well how am I supposed to know how many eggs you need?
You can't pick out 3 and take them to the check-out.
I didn't know what you wanted.
Thank goodness they don't sell the 18-packs there. That would
really have confused him.
After the coloring of the eggs, there was a near 'embarrassing
Easter egg faux pas' on my part. I had set the eggs aside to feed
#2 son some leftovers of corn dog and fries for supper. As I
tipped up the ketchup bottle for his vegetable food group, a
small squirt of ketchup shot out onto #1 son's egg rack. Luckily
most of it went on the paper plate under the metal bunny holder.
Only a small spot got on one egg. Whew!
Today we had Easter dinner at my Hillbilly Mama's house with
my sister and her husband-the-ex-mayor and their son and
daughter. The kids had a great time playing badminton, with the
exception of #1 son, who got whacked in the mouth with a
badminton racket (or 'racquet' for my overseas friends) by
#2 son. What a big crybaby! That tooth was ready to come
out anyway. Yeah. It's all fun and games until somebody loses
a tooth. And then it's still pretty much fun, except for the guy
with a bloody hole in his mouth, who is kind of bitter about the
whole incident, and wants to exact revenge on the whacker.
Tomorrow I'll tell you about the corn-dog-eater's embarrassing
foot-in-mouth faux pas when we went out to lunch Saturday
afternoon. We may not go back there for a while.