It’s Saturday, Holy Saturday for the Greek Orthodox. Tomorrow will be Easter for us. In years past, we would gather at our friends’ home to eat lamb directly from the spit and drink far too much red wine; laugh, sing and joke with one another. We stopped going to church at midnight when our oldest child was about a year old; that Easter, both he and I were suffering from strep throat and ear infections. We went to the post-church feast with raging fevers, only to be diagnosed the following day. Truth be told, I can’t stay up that late unless I’ve taken a four-hour nap in the afternoon. I’m asleep by 10:30 every night, whether I want to be or not.
So we are celebrating corona-Easter eve with Jamaican take-out, and tomorrow we will put some goat on the grill, roast some cauliflower and asparagus. Other than the fabulous food we will make and eat tomorrow, corona-Easter will be like every other Sunday.
I’m thankful for the memories of Easters past; of the so many Easter Sundays that our oldest child had a soccer game and had to be carted back and forth between bites of lamb, sausages and spanakopita. Of the Mondays after, nursing a pounding head the first few hours of the morning and feel the effects of eating far too much the day before in celebration of the Resurrection. Ah, well, corona-Easter will be decidedly different.