Just Eggs
The eggs are taking a blood bath in Mom’s largest saucepan, like they do every Orthodox Easter. The red dye smells of vinegar.
I tilt the kitchen window, and the little bell on the floral wreath jingles in the process.
In a few days, the red-painted eggs are going to exchange hands between relatives and family friends. So is the tsoureki, a braided loaf of sweet bread, sometimes served with an egg cradled in its soft center. My mouth waters at the thought of the fluffy warm dough and the scent of orange zest, mahalepi and other — more exotic — spices I can’t name.
Every spring, my mom whirls around in the apricot-colored kitchen, baking like a lunatic.
“It’s tradition,” she says with pride, following my late grandmother’s old recipe to a T.
It’s also tradition to eat lamb entrails. I remember Dad cleaning the long slim tubes over the sink, one by one, like lasso candy from hell.
“Do I have to go to church tonight?” I grumble with the intensity only teenagers possess.
Mom looks at me as if I told her I was planning on killing the metropolitan bishop.
We’ve had this conversation countless times. I never learn.
She shooes me away from the drawer I’m blocking. “It’s only once a year.”
But it feels like an eternity, I want to say, although I know my words will be drowned like those eggs boiling on the stove.
Greek liturgies aren’t for the impatient. They take hours to finish on regular Sundays, and eons during Holy Week.
“What’s the point? I don’t understand a single word the priest says.”
Reason enough for me to drift off during service, dreaming of portals to secret worlds hidden behind the icon screen, the Iconostasis. My Greek version of Alice in Wonderland.
“It’s not about the words alone; it’s about spirituality.”
Easy for her to say. She’s studied Ancient Greek at school.
Mom brushes her blond hair from her forehead. “What are you going to wear?” There’s a tinge of impatience in her voice.
I roll my eyes so quickly, my sockets twinge. “Something.”
Her light blue eyes that bore into mine have lost their glow a little.
A popping sound interrupts our staring contest.
“Oh no.” Mom removes the saucepan from the cooktop and curses in Greek.
Cracked eggs swim in red water.
“Mom.” I lay my hand on her shoulder. “They’re just eggs.”
To read more stories from December’s Dark & Holy Fiction Challenge visit and follow The Mad River Literary Journal and 13 Days Pub.
