“So, what are you doing for Easter?” my mom asked me today as we were catching up over the phone.
“Nothing. We’re going to church, and then after that, nothing,” I said. “And that’s just fine by me.”
“Us, too,” she said of my father and herself. “Maybe we’ll go out to eat.”
“Not me,” I said. “The crowds are more than I can take on Easter.”
“Oh. Well, I like the buffet at the Pine Cove,” she said.
“Yuck, I hate buffets,” I said. To be fair, the Pine Cove supper club is among the best options for dining out in my hometown (the reception for my first wedding was held there, among the deer-in-the-woods murals and gold lantern lighting), but then it’s competing with Hardee’s.
“Good buffet” is an oxymoron in my mind. Buffets are like casinos — the house always wins. So the promise of “all you can eat” is fulfilled with the cheapest volume possible, usually white in hue. Lots of salt, pasta, bread, potatoes, sugar and chicken fill the sloppy trays at a rousing buffet.
When you’re 16 and bottomless, a buffet is appealing. But when every calorie counts in perimenopause, you’re loathe to waste them on glop flavored with low-common-denominator spices.
I wouldn’t eat at an Old Country Buffet anymore if it were the last restaurant on earth. But you can bet there’d be a line!
So I won’t be enjoying a buffet on Easter Sunday, but I won’t be eating ham either (at least ham isn’t white). If my mother likes a good buffet, my mother-in-law could eat ham three times a day (ham-and-cheese omelet for breakfast, ham salad for lunch, ham sandwich or ham and scalloped potatoes for supper), but I don’t need ham for Easter any more than I need an Easter egg hunt.
So what’s it going to be on Easter? No buffet chicken? No ham? No hard-boiled eggs?
Reece’s Peanut Butter Eggs, anyone?
What’s on your Sunday menu this year?