When I was growing up, solid color Easter eggs were frowned upon. Rather, we were taught by my father to hold eggs partially submerged in dye, our fingers trembling at the effort to keep a purchase whilst avoiding contact with the solution of Chick Chick powder (my mom always bought two packages to make the colors darker), vinegar and boiling water.
Layers of color were added one over the other, taking care not to mix orange and purple or green and pink lest we end up with muddy eggs. Plaids and stripes, rainbows and spots, were objects of praise. Blurred lines and inadvertent fingerprints were subject to disapproving looks. Is it any wonder I bit my nails until I was almost 40?
My mom polished the finished eggs with paper towels and a thin coating of Crisco to make them glossy, then they were left out on the dining room table to be hidden overnight by the Easter rabbit. Only then were the eggs put in the fridge to be eaten over the course of the following week. I don't recall any of us getting food poisoning as a result, but then again, if ever we did have tummy trouble it was most likely blamed on too much chocolate rather than improperly stored eggs.
I haven't dyed eggs for many years now, although I'll never say "never again." Anything can happen. But this is all by way of explaining why: in my mind Easter is pastel stripes and plaids.
Patch #87: thrift store shirting
