Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Easter Easter Wink Wink
On Easter my friend Dalley made these amazing technicolor dream eggs. The technique is a secret her family closely guards and passes down only to the females, after they have proven themselves worthy by sewing the perfect shirt dress and crafting the perfect egg salad.
Heck, not really. But the eggs were amazing. I doubted Dalley when she told me what she was at, and yet, she prevailed.
We were at Dalley's house because this magnanimous housewife declared it necessary and proper for Mr. Vesuvius to be allowed to visit his brewery in the garage, first thing on Easter morning, before any talk of eggs or baskets (or mimosas, I might add), and. . . preform some task related to brewing beer. Transferring the fledgling beer from one keg to another? Mr. Vesuvius swears this is necessary. I have just now begun to wonder if this is Mr. Vesuvius' clever plan to spend an extra night here and there down at the Fierce Bad Brew Co with the other males of the pack.
"Really honey, the beer has to be moved, I swear. Yeah and it's proven that if you don't smoke both meat and cigars while moving it, the beer gods are displeased and will mash your wort and not your tun. Exactly."
"Hey Aaron? This is Noah. We must 'transfer the beer' on Easter morning in order to keep up our ruse."
Yes, on Easter morning, all in dresses and hankering for ham, we first brewed beer. I do believe that was most noble of me indeed.
The Easter bunny came through. I called it a she and everyone rolled their eyes.
I guess you didn't know that my dad is, in fact, Ernest Hemingway. Here is Hemingway in the spring.
This, my friends, is the only shot of the three cousins in which two of them weren't flashing their drawers.
My poor dear mother once again failed in her lifelong endeavor to get a decent picture of the three of us together. It is all she has been asking, these last few years, and we have all tried gamely, to various disappointing results. I blame my sister, who pulls faces and rolls her eyes and proves herself most uncooperative, and totally not myself.
Not my fault at all.
--Vesuvius signing off--