Today I woke up with the distinct memory of Mom’s Italian Easter bread that she baked every year. The aroma of that break baking was irresistible. I could smell it this morning as I woke up from that dream of Mom baking Italian Easter bread that we took to church for the blessing of food. When I looked up the recipes for this, I was happy to see it was just like I remember: beautiful shiny loaves of twisted egg bread with colored eggs. We would put it in a food basket and take it to church. I always went with Mom.
Easter outfits were a requirement. Whether I got my sister’s hand-me-downs or Mom made something for us, I loved having my new outfit. Easter bonnet to patent leather shoes, we were ready for church and for a trip to take pictures either downtown or at Detroit’s Belle Isle Park. Then, it was back home to Mom’s home-cooked meal, which I recall was often city chicken, a meal that I actually liked after I grew up and matured around age eight. By the time our baby sister arrived, seven years my junior, our dynamics had changed and we were going on long drives to the country and eating dinner at a restaurant.
Memories really do last a lifetime.
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