I hate Easter candy.
Am I allowed to say that out loud? It feels good to get it off my chest. I hate marshmallow filling. I hate eggs with super creamy rich filling. I can’t even handle the Reese’s Eggs. The ratio of peanut butter to chocolate is all wrong. And malted milk ball eggs make me feel like gagging.
I know. I deserve to be disowned, shunned, and stoned to death.
Reliably every Easter, I feel forced to eat Easter candy when people give it to me and out of politeness, I fake the enjoyment. But then reliably 30 minutes later, I feel outrageously ill. I love rich creamy desserts. But not candy. For some reason, I just can’t handle it. It doesn’t even taste good going down.
A super rich cupcake tastes like heaven initially even if you experience discomfort a bit later. But Easter candy always sucks from beginning to end. Every year, I dread the inevitable moment when someone tries to force a Peep on me. And I politely state that I don’t really like Peeps. Then their reaction is “OMG YOU DON’T LIKE PEEPS?!” then I feel weird about having to explain or restate my opinion of them. And then I feel ungrateful… or something. It’s kind of an indescribable feeling… but I know it’s a bad one.
I don’t like Easter dinner as much either. Thanksgiving and Christmas are awesome. But Easter with its ham instead of turkey, sweet potatoes instead of mashed potatoes, deviled eggs instead of stuffing, and bunny cake instead of apple pie just doesn’t do it for me. It’s still good, I’m not gonna lie. But I never feel like I’m craving Easter dinner whereas I think about the goodness Thanksgiving and Christmas all year long. Again, these thoughts make me feel ungrateful. Like there’s all that food buuuuut the whole time I’m wishing it was different food. Easter is a rollercoaster of id and superego influences.
And this post totally makes me sound like I’m the most negative hater of all time. But these feelings have been building up my whole life. And I just need to publicly confess them.
I do love everything else about Easter though. The egg hunts, the family time, the spring dresses, etc. Holidays are the best.
This one was spent with my Alabama family though. And while I miss my PA fam and would give anything to have been sitting at Nonnie’s table today, it was still really nice and enjoyable. A replacement family is never the same as your real family, but my Alabama family at the river is definitely way more loving and awesome than a family I ever thought I’d have after only three months of living 1,000 miles from home. I was like instantly their adopted kid and I am so outrageously grateful for that.
We had a backyard home run derby. Generally, the first time you feel the sting of a wiffle ball grounder on your palm is the moment you know that winter is officially over. I’m not sure how that really applies to Alabama life though because I’ve felt like winter was over for awhile now. I mean, I went to the beach a month ago. That wiffle ball feeling is still a good one though. It’s a good kind of pain. A competitive kind of pain. And it’s the moment when you know that you’re headed into a spring and summer full of wiffle ball sports and backyard pickup games.
This is another one of those things that makes me realize how damn important sports are to my existence. And I still feel kind of stupid about it. But sports feel like home. And I’m just instantly comfortable in sports-related situations. The whole day, I was kind of like “I miss my family. I want to be home.” But then we went outside for wiffle ball activities, I felt like I was home. Because that’s what we do at home. Competition and playing outside are part of my DNA.
I miss the WNY backyard though. I miss kicking around soccer balls with my siblings. And how we always set up the goal in front of the basement windows. And Mom would yell about how we were gonna crack the siding every time we nailed one through the cones and hit the side of the house. But I think she was happier to have us outside of the house and out of her way than she was upset about the potential damage to the siding.
And I miss how well we knew every inch of that backyard. Like where in the tree on the “baseball field” you needed to hit the ball to get a double out of it instead of just one base. And exactly where you needed to aim if you wanted to hit a ball that was just barely fair to bring the runner on third home.
There are tricks to every backyard sport. And the kids who know the backyard the best usually win. Friends from other neighborhoods never have a chance. If you’re bike racing around the house, you know what part of the slope you have to go up to carry the most momentum from going down the previous slope and where the muddy spots are during the spring. Struggling up slopes and biking through mud slow you down. If it’s your backyard and you’ve raced around that backyard multiple times, you’re a pro and you win. It’s significant home field advantage.
The kickball pitching advantage is probably the most universal. Every kid knows how to make the ball hit that secret bump that makes it spin that one way that makes it virtually unkickable. Most backyards have a secret bump between the pitching mound and home plate.
I can’t wait to buy a house and have a backyard again. And then eventually have kids. I want to come home in the afternoon and see footballs in the yard and little bean plants in Styrofoam cups on the railing of the porch. And play knockout as a family after dinner on warm summer nights. I feel kind of stupid admitting that. It’s lame and girly.
I admitted a lot of deep dark secrets in this post. The jellybeans must have been truth serum flavored but I’m not sure because usually I like to swallow them with as little chewing as possible because they taste gross.