Easter in S.H.

Happy Easter Monday!

That's Goldfinger saying hello from Sag Harbor. We haven't come to an agreement on what we're calling our yellow school bus that puts a smile on everyone's face who sees it, but I like Goldfinger.

I hope you and yours enjoyed the earlier than early Easter weekend. I know I did. My only complaint is it went by too quickly. I'd really been looking forward to being out of the city for a couple of days and here I am, back at work on a manic Monday, feeling like this weekend was just a flash of family, food and fun.

If anyone can tell me why we celebrated Easter in March this year, I will treat you to dinner. Seriously. Besides movie and book reviews, politics and cocktails, this was the topic of many a conversation over the weekend at my Uncle Butzy's (sounds like kibbutz) house.

"What are you packing for Easter, Mona?" asked my roommate FoxyLady, who we adopted for the weekend. It's the second time she's spent Easter with us. I think I smell a tradition.

"I have no idea. I guess my white and pink Lilly Pulitzer palm tree strapless number with white sandals is out, huh?" Bummer.

Once we knew we were heading to Sag Harbor, we decided on an Easter feast Saturday night and a mellow brunch after church on Sunday. My luggage contained jeans, sweaters and for Easter a blue and white-striped blouse, a grey J. Crew wool blazer and off-white cords, not really the Easter egg-hunting apparel of yore, I know.

FoxyLady and I hopped on the Jitney from work on Friday and we were in Sag Harbor by 6:30. Mom and Dad weren't kidding when they told me they brought everything from our home in Connecticut but the kitchen sink. We walked into what is normally my uncle's simple, uncluttered habitat and it had become a kitchen and Easter decoration warehouse supply store. There were bags in every shape and size scattered throughout the kitchen and dining room. And the biggest shock of all came when I went to grab a water from the refrigerator. Uncle B is the takeout king and his is usually empty. This weekend it was overflowing with cheeses and wines and vegetables and antipasta. It was more food than I think we had in our fridge at Christmas and I was in California for ten days. We were only spending 48 hours in Sag Harbor!

FoxyLady and I cruised in East Hampton Saturday afternoon and I was so amused by this store's window posting I snapped a picture. The Monogram Shop made napkins and cups for the candidates and they've been tallying how many of each cup they've sold. As you can see, Obama cups are the runaway favorites. Poor McCain doesn't seem too popular in good ol' East Hampton. How's this for a slice of Americana?

When we returned from our Saturday shopping escapade we found Dad making his famous stuffed baked clams. The batter filled about a dozen shells but for some reason I spotted half of them sitting in the fridge.

"Why are there only six on the tray?" I asked worried I would only get one helping.

"I'm only cooking six."

"What!?"

"For once we're not getting full on appetizers, miss." He responded as he shoved them in the oven before I could say anything else.

Hmmph. I've eaten these once a year for as long as I can remember and these were the best in two decades. I really wanted that second helping.

Look at mom's cute paper plates.

The rest of the feast:

*A honey-glazed ham to die for. I don't even like ham sandwiches from the deli, but this ham was ridiculous. My parents informed me they fell in love with it at a friend's house and will never order another baked ham from anywhere else. Nodine's apple-smoked spiral cut ham. Learn it. Find it. Love it. You too can order it for any holiday feast.

*My mom's famous asparagus. It's usually a tag team effort. Mom steams 'em and I babysit to make sure the sticks don't get overcooked. These were the best yet. Twelve minutes in the steamer and about seven minutes in the oven before we broiled them for three minutes.

*Roasted potatoes, courtesy of the Barefoot Contessa. They were great, but they just got a little chilly in my Uncle's icebox.

And here are the friendly Easter bunny candles that Mom found.


"Want me to light these?" asked FoxyLady.

"NO! They're too cute!" yelled my mom from the kitchen. It wouldn't be the first time a purchase's form trumps its function.

For the first time Dad didn't have to ask me to set the table and I was quite proud of myself. I was in charge of decorating the table and I had fun playing with these little waxy Peter Cottontails. Check out their little white tails! Yes, I'm easily amused.

Mom was loving the seriousness with which I worked.

"Well, forget you ever needing a wedding planner! You'll be doing your own decorations!"

This little guy's looking in sadness over the corn muffins that didn't quite come out as expected. I think the word "hockey puck" was thrown around a few times. I had a bite and put the rest of it back on the plate where it came from, hoping nobody noticed. We laughed about going down to the pond to feed the ducks with them but that never happened. I suggested a cornbread stuffing, but that went out the window as well. Mom made them from scratch from a Paula Deen cookbook. I plan on filing an official complaint.


After several of Uncle B's signature Mt. Gay and tonics, or as I like to call them, the Palmer Terrace, FoxyLady and I ventured out to the bars of Sag Harbor to scope out any other young 20-somethings in town for the holiday weekend. Sadly, the scene wasn't nearly as hopping as we'd hoped. The only party was a joint bachelor/bachelorette pub crawl, made noticeable by their drunken loudness and team T-shirts. I think FoxyLady signed some girl's T-shirt, "Happiness forever."

Sunday our schedule included Mass and brunch. Exercise was part of the plan Saturday night but there was little motivation in our post-feast comas. We ended up at the children's Mass which was quite amusing. The priest called up all the children to the altar and when he asked what Easter meant to them all you could hear was "Easter eggs!" "Candy!" "Bunnies!" I felt I was watching an episode of Bill Cosby's "Kids Say the Darndest Things." When he mentioned an Easter egg hunt after the ceremony FoxyLady's leg started twitching.

"What is wrong with you?" I asked.

"I'm getting mentally prepared for the egg hunt. I'm ready to race out of here!"

"Umm, you know we're 28 right? We don't do the hunt," I said.

"Yah, but I'm so competitive. I can't help myself!"

Yes. But let me help you. "You are NOT doing the egg hunt."

Dad won the best dressed award, along with FoxyLady, for his awesome yellow pants. Mom knows how to pick 'em! This could be straight out of my favorite fashion blog, The Sartorialist. After our positive response to the pants, Mom said she would head back to the Darien Sports Store to buy Dad a red pair. Nantucket reds, perhaps?

We had brunch at Spinnakers in town. We were thinking of going to the American Hotel but their brunch was more like a five-course dinner and much too food-forward for our simple brunch tastes.

Unfortunately, FoxyLady and Uncle B were disappointed with their eggs Benedict. I tried the creamed spinach and agreed it was just OK.

Mom's "hobble bobble" omelette was a hit. Don't ask what that means, or who came up with that name (perhaps it was a drunken conversation over Thanksgiving?), but the waitress described it as an omelette with cheese, bacon and potatoes.


Dad loved his dessert/brunch-Belgian waffle with strawberries and cream.


I ordered the lobster roll. It was MUCH better than it looked. I was slightly disappointed by its size--I was expecting a massive roll, and it sat on a mini hotdug bun. After I finished I was relieved there wasn't more to it. It had just the right amount of mayo and the lobster tasted very chilled, crisp and fresh.


I never thought I'd ever say I don't like French fries that are overcooked, but that was the case with these. I love my fries crispy but all you could taste was the fried layer and no potato inside. This is good for a few fries at the bottom of a batch, but not for all of them.

Several years have passed, though it feels like just yesterday I was up at an altar screaming and shouting with my brother for candy in my pink and white frilled dress, white patent leather shoes and white socks with a lace trim. At 28, I still find it's not Easter without malted eggs. Nor is it Easter without my family.

FoxyLady and I headed home on the Jitney a few hours after brunch, armed with two enormous bags of leftovers. I gave Uncle B and my parents big hugs and grew nostalgic for Easters as a kid, when we didn't have to part ways. Sitting on the bus I looked at FoxyLady with a frown and said, "No matter how little or often I see my parents, it's always sad to say goodbye." There were no tears yesterday, though I came awfully close. I was overcome with a feeling of happiness for being so lucky, mixed with a little bit of ho-hum glum for missing my family and hope that my parents will be around for another 28 Easters.