Easter weekend always feels like one long day – staying up till 4 am will do that to you, although 4 is nothing compared to the year Annie and I stayed up till dawn.  That was all of what, three years ago?  Yet I feel so much older and wiser.

Things kick-started with my egg dying on Thursday afternoon.  It’s been untold years since I dyed an egg, but in those days it was all gentle pastels and little kits and those little wire contraptions to lower the egg into the dye and gently lift it up again.  We used to do hard boiled eggs and blown eggs, which we hung on an egg “tree” – a branch from the pink flowering tree in the backyard.  My parents probably still have cartons of those blown and dyed eggs in with our old Easter baskets and such.

This year it was red eggs, traditional for handing out at the end of the midnight service.  You start out with brown eggs (otherwise you end up with hot pink, not red eggs, or so I’m told) and a packet of the most intense dye you’ll ever see.  I think it said it would make enough to dye 50 eggs.  I only did 24.  I was also careful to wear red in case of splatters.

That’s my large stock pot, full of dye.

Here’s the “before” shot:

I spent a lot of time getting distracted by taking pictures of the eggs.  Not only are eggs delicious, they are also lovely to behold.  I only wish I could have used some of Kate’s egg excess, but alas she is far away.

Here’s “after”:

This was before they were “lightly polished using oil and a cloth” while I watched The Namesake.  By then it was dark and the lighting wasn’t as good.  I wonder if the oil polish helps to stop the dye from rubbing off on your hands, or if it’s just for shininess.  I got an unpolished egg from the basket on Pascha morning, so I was unable to test that theory.  I certainly ended up with dye on my hands.  Fortunately my kitchen didn’t turn too pink in the dying process, although I imagine my drain will never be the same again.
I love red.