It’s Easter, and I am sitting at my mum’s place while my nephew and niece sleep and the rest of my family attends the midnight service. It is my favourite church service of the year. The church yard is filled with hundreds of people chatting – Greeks can be irreverent – until the priest comes out of the church spreading the Holy Light and everyone starts singing Χριστός Ανέστη (Christ has Risen). It is a sea of flickering lights as everyone has a lit candle and the Resurrection hymn is beautifully sung by hundreds of people in unison. Though I’m not at church, my mum’s home being only 100 metres away means that I can hear faint voices carrying up the hill. Easter is filled with rituals for my family and surprisingly, this year we will be forgoing one of our most steadfast traditions. We are not having a midnight feast. This is great for our digestive systems but sad that there is no offal soup to be had.
(Note: I can hear the bells ringing. It is midnight).
As much as we are doing away with the midnight feast we have slaughtered our annual lamb which will be cooked on a spit and we will be having egg wars, albeit with difficulty. Earlier, I discovered my mum’s painted eggs have been cracked already.
My mum had left the eggs on her dining room table and her younger grandchildren got excited and started cracking them. It is funny but it reminded me of a terribly sad story that my dad would tell me: Continue reading