I've never really cared for Easter. When I was living in Italy, Easter was another occasion for one of those extended Italian holidays, with the Monday after tacked on for good measure. That should have been a reason for celebration, I know. But the memories of our years running our restaurant in the mountains still reminded me of the hoards of people seemingly let out from their homes for the first time, the Italian mass hell bent on having a good time all together on this one day, like an army of ants.
My Easter this year was the sweeter American version that I remember as a child, with the squeals of my nieces as they braved the cold to find the hidden eggs. And my Easter was about one more thing, and I have not a single complaint.
My Easter was about snow.