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 April 2006 Back to Table of Contents Back to Archives Main Page Section: Humor Why Color the Eggs? By Theodore Rickard Coloring Easter eggs takes a lot of concentration. And noone concentrates with better laser-focus than my six-year-old grandson, Bobby. Bobby’s mother left a dozen white eggs on the kitchen counter when she, his older sister, and Grandmother left to shop for shoes. Somehow shoe shopping required having lunch beforehand. The peanut butter was in the kitchen cupboard, I was told. None of this distracted Bobby the way it did me. “There are twelve of them,” he counted. “That’s a dozen.” Like his mother and his grandmother, he was sure I needed guidance. “Mommy said she got only white eggs for coloring. No brown ones. Why are some eggs brown?” I hadn’t the foggiest idea. So, foolishly, I tried an answer anyway. “Well, some chickens are white and some are brown. Brown feathers.” That seemed to deal with it. But then, some gremlin in me added: “except for Rhode Island Reds, of course.” I busied myself putting the eggs gingerly, one at a time, into the pot of boiling water. Bobby stood on tiptoe as we waited for the inevitable crack of at least one egg and the telltale float of cooked albumen escaping the crack. “Eech,” he said, as we watched. And then, “I’ve never heard of red eggs.” “Rhode Island Reds lay brown eggs,” I said, trying to muster a sureness about the subject I didn’t at all feel. “They are just called ‘reds’ because they are kind of rust colored. Not the eggs. The chickens.” All the time, my own mind was boggling at the thought of vivid carmine eggs laid by an astonished hen, and I could only guess what Bobby was thinking. Happily, he was too polite to argue. “Why does the Easter Bunny hide the eggs? He knows we are going to find them anyway. Does he think we’re stupid, or something?” He went to the kitchen table where the packets of dye and six cups were laid out awaiting the boiling water. “Why do we have to color the eggs?” “We don’t have to, exactly. It’s just fun — to help the Easter Bunny.” “Why?” “Well,” I began, and I felt desperation taking over. “If they are all bright colors, they are easier to find.” “They’d be easier to find if we just left them in the middle of the dining room table, like last year.” “Do you want peanut butter?” He climbed up to kneel on a kitchen chair. “You’d think he could color the eggs himself — the Easter Bunny,” he said with almost a sigh. “Especially with all that help he has.” “What help?” “You know — Flopsie, Mopsie, Cottontail and Peter Rabbit. Is Peter Rabbit the Easter Bunny’s husband?” “They’re just good friends.” “Would old Mr. MacGruder try to kill the Easter Bunny if he caught him?” “Of course not! If he did that, he wouldn’t get any Easter eggs.” This last, I thought, was a genuine inspiration. “I don’t think he cares.” The peanut butter sandwich stifled further comment but the eyes were thoughtful and distant as he chewed. I poured milk for both of us in an effort at forestalling whatever might be coming next. He swallowed and pinned me with the look of a triumphant prosecutor in a courtroom drama. “Elmer Fudd shoots his gun at Bugs Bunny.” He might think this settled it, but I had the rebuttal. “Yes, but he always misses — every time,” I said. “And Bugs Bunny doesn’t do Easter eggs, anyway. Here. Have another sandwich. The eggs will be done any minute now.” I’d forgotten to set the timer, of course, and I had no idea how long it took eggs to be hard boiled. Regardless, it was time for coloring. And we both could concentrate on preparing the cups of dye and cooling the eggs. “I still don’t see why when the Easter Bunny brings those baskets with the funny grass stuff and all that candy, he can’t bring along a dozen eggs at the same time.” “Now that I think of it,” I said, “neither do I.” back to top back to table of contents Current Issue | About Forever Young | Where to Find | Advertise | Our Advertisers | Community Calendar | Contest | Clubs | Contact Us | Archives | Home |