When I was a child I ate as a child.
When I think about where I grew up (presuming that eventually, actually happened) three places come to mind, McKinley School, McKinley Hill Community Church, and Parkey's Tavern. In some odd way these three were braided together to form the cord that ties me to my reality.
Easter was the time to color eggs, gag on those icky chocolate rabbits that were laced with marshmellow, and go to Easter Sunday breakfast at the church. But there was a problem: I always went alone (this was during grade school years) and I was always late; too late to go to the sunrise service at Wright's Park in downtown Tacoma.
No matter; I'd hang out at the church and watch the cook scramble dozens of eggs and fry enough ham to feed fifty hungry worshippers. The rule was, that to get food you had to go to the service at the park. Evidently I was young enough and looked hungry enough that the cook (and chief enforcer of that rule) looked the other way. It's possible too that she didn't notice me because I was the smallest kid in the class.
Anyway, memories of Easter have little to do with the Resurrection and everything to do with ham and eggs; eggs scrambled, eggs hard boiled, eggs colored, eggs deviled (on Easter??) eggs eaten in overabundance in the bliss of childhood ignorance. And nowadays: Oh my cholesterol; but I still like eggs. I just limit myself to one every month or so. Life is hard (boiled). e.c.