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When I was a kid, Easter wasn’t just a holiday—it was a well-oiled production.There was a system. A rhythm. A standard.
The night before, we dyed eggs. Not casually, not artistically—no, this was serious business. Little wire egg dippers, cups of suspiciously bright dye, and at least one egg that ended up looking like it had survived a chemical spill. Hands stained. Table covered. Totally worth it.
Then came Easter morning. . .
Up early—because clearly the Easter Bunny rewards punctual children—and off I went to hunt for eggs like tiny, sugar-fueled detective. Every year, same deal: I acted surprised. Every year, I was not.
And then… the basket.
Wrapped in purple cellophane. Always purple. With a bow that said, This is important. Respect the presentation.
Inside? Perfection.
Right in the center sat the chocolate Easter bunny. Not some flimsy hollow imposter—this bunny had presence. Authority. It was the CEO of the basket.
Surrounding it were those glorious chocolate-covered eggs filled with cherry, coconut, and whatever mystery flavor nobody could quite identify but ate anyway. Four to six of them. Enough to feel abundant, not enough to share willingly.
And then—because my mother did not mess around—there were the little surprises. Toys. Trinkets. Things you didn’t even know you needed until they showed up in your Easter basket like tiny miracles.
It was fun. It was predictable. And it was perfect.
After breakfast—nothing too special—we’d start getting ready for the main event: family lunch.
My sister and her crew (two kids, always in motion), my brother and his wife—and sometimes a kid or two depending on the year—would all gather at my parents’ house. Out came the table. And not just any table… the table. The one that could extend to what felt like 10,000 pounds of wood and leaves. Every section added like we were preparing for a royal banquet.
And without fail, my siblings would bring my mother a beautiful plant—usually a hanging basket. I still remember those parachute flowers in purple and pink, spilling over the sides like they were showing off a little.
Then came dinner. No appetizers. No easing into it. We went straight in.
Ham. Mashed potatoes. Mac and cheese. Corn. Carrots. And of course, homemade raised yeast dinner rolls—which, let’s be honest, could have been the entire meal and nobody would have complained.
Dinner was pretty much always the same. And it was always very good.
And here’s the thing—back then, I thought all Easter baskets—and honestly, all Easters—were like that. Of course they were. Why wouldn’t they be?
Turns out… no. No, they were not.
2. Fast forward to our Easters at our own home in Maryland—where, naturally, I took everything I knew… and scaled it up like a production manager with something to prove. This time, Gary and I had three young boys. And most of the memories? They happened right there.
My parents would come to our house, along with my sister and her two kids—who were conveniently the exact same age as ours, which meant built-in chaos. Sometimes my brother would make an appearance, but mostly it was my sister and my parents anchoring the whole thing.
And yes—we followed the system.
Egg dyeing the night before… except now we weren’t messing around with a polite dozen eggs. Oh no. We went straight to three dozen. Because apparently more eggs equals more fun (and significantly more cleanup).
Easter morning? Same deal.
Egg hunt. Baskets.
And let me ask you—how do you think my boys’ baskets were done?
Exactly. - Chocolate bunny in the center. Strategic egg placement. Toys with purpose.
The only real change? Three different colors of cellophane. Because if you think three boys can peacefully identify their basket without color-coding, you have clearly never met siblings. That situation could escalate into full-contact sport in under thirty seconds.
Then on to dinner.
Same menu. Of course.
Ham. Mac and cheese. Vegetables. Rolls.
My sister and I split the cooking—and we did pretty well… except for the mashed potatoes.
To this day, I’m not entirely sure what happened there, but I do vividly remember one year where they had the consistency of a white bowl of glue. Not even gravy could save them. We all ate them anyway. That’s how you know it was family.
Dessert, though? We upgraded.
Growing up, it was apple pie or bread pudding. Classic. Respectable.
At our house? Yes, apple pie—but also chocolate. Lots of chocolate. Because at some point I realized: you can honor tradition and improve it.
As the years went on, things started to evolve.
3. The boys kept getting Easter baskets—well into college, I might add, because I am not a quitter—but we began tweaking the traditions.
Mashed potatoes? Gone. Eliminated. Retired with dignity.
Real eggs? Still dyed—but we also introduced plastic eggs with money inside. A dollar in each one, and a golden egg with five. Suddenly, we had a highly competitive economy on our hands.
Then came the outdoor egg hunts.
We had three-plus acres, so we went big. Eggs everywhere. Trees, bushes, places that made absolutely no sense.
Which meant, of course, that months later, Gary would be mowing the lawn and uncovering melted, slightly horrifying chocolate relics of Easter past.
All good memories.
4. And now?
Now Easter looks a little different again.
This past few years in North Carolina was all different. To hard to try to get together from NY, Seattle and Detroit. This year we had one son home, Brooks, along with a few of his friends. But we’ve created something new. We invite what we lovingly call the “orphans”—friends who aren’t traveling to be with family. Usually 16 to 22 people. A full house. Just in a different way.
No egg dyeing the night before. (And honestly, I don’t miss the egg salad situation one bit.)
Instead, we gather Sunday afternoon at what we now call Camp Gabel.
And this… is The Feast.
It’s potluck, which sounds innocent—but don’t be fooled. This is not a modest gathering. This is abundance on a level that could feed a small village. It starts with shrimp, dips, and a full charcuterie spread that requires strategy.
Then we move to the main event: ham, my mac and cheese (still holding strong), someone else bravely handling the potatoes, and more food than any reasonable group of people needs.
And then—the desserts. An entire table of them. Over-the-top. Slightly outrageous. Completely necessary.
No egg hunts. No baskets.
Just friendship… and a level of gluttony that would make my childhood Easter bunny proud.
And you know what? It’s still the same at its core.
A rhythm. A gathering. A standard.
Just… better with wine and amazing gourmet food.
One more Tiny memory of childhood was my dad always making the watermelon egg. He would use clear crayon and make stripes from top-to bottom and dying it green. He always did it and continued through celebrations with his grandkids and great grands. Hope you had a Happy Easter!
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