I remember what trouble she used to go to with the table. Out they came, all those little yolk-yellow chicks and tiny foil-covered chocolate eggs, a gathering of which was placed by each setting on the table. I loved all that. I loved the care and the detail and the marking of tradition. I now know where it all came from. It was her heritage. I’ve seen it on other tables since in those Northern climes. I have no need to do it, no family or gathering that requires it, though I sometimes wish I did. The memories still spark. And sometimes that is enough.
