The Easter Bunny Cameth

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Yes, the Easter Bunny appeared last Sunday and he should’ve brought a laundry hamper, not a basket. It’s all Liz’s fault.

(OhI should interrupt to say: I’m back. Or rather Funny Farm is back after an indeterminate hiatus. Does anyone care? Is anyone still reading this thing? Hello, hello…? HelLo! Oh hi, Mom.)

Ok, back to Easter prep. Last week I contacted my egg dealer and put out an A.P.B. for white, dyeable eggs since our typical delivery is populated by the brown-shelled variety.

As always, Liz confirmed that she got the goods. I scanned her text — half-reading something about a few regular ones and some goose eggs and “just boil those a few extra minutes.”

Got it. Large eggs in the shipment. I expected to open her fridge and fish out a bulging cardboard carton — one that almost, yet not quite, could be fastened shut.

Instead, I discovered a bunch of mammoth goose eggs that would never dream of nesting in a conventional carton.

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Here’s a chicken egg — XL at that — beside a goose 6-pack.

 

The goose eggs were enormous and their shells, rock hard. Once cleaned and shed from dirt, the shells revealed a marbled, mottled texture. They looked like dinosaur eggs.

Or what I imagined dino eggs to look like.

I hardboiled them in batches — several batches — and we set to dyeing them in addition to the “normal” eggs.

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Goose v. chicken

 

 

Hadley used the bigins to interview the Easter Bunny.

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Ignore the farm-grubby hand.

 

(Note: Sunday morning the Easter Bun responded to her query on another egg. I believe he wrote, I kome at the daytyme. He’s a lousy speller.)

So the kids retrieved the bunny’s scatterings, though they lumbered with their weighty baskets, buckling beneath the heft of 18 goose eggs. And due to this added strain, this year’s hunt required frequent chocolate breaks.

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Postscript: Once the big eggs were returned to their perishable perch, (and they consume a lot of real estate in the fridge) I was hobbled by goose-egg phobia. Dyeing those monsters was one thing. But eating them? The thought grossed me out. (Why do goose eggs harbor a yuck factor? Who knows.)

It took two days to muster the courage to taste test. I cracked the shell — all the while assuring myself that I could abort mission at the slightest sign of weirdness. Eventually I stared down a naked, albeit large, egg. Then I sliced it in half.

It looked like any hard-boiled egg… on steroids. It made a helluva lot of egg salad. Goose egg salad.

I offered a few of these eggs to a friend and she took two, with great reluctance.

Goose eggs? She said. They kind of gross me out.