Today is obviously the most unusual Easter Sunday ever. There will be no Easter Parade, no choirs belting out Handel’s Greatest Hits, and no eggs rolled in public spaces (impossible to keep those kids 6 feet apart). We will be missing the one day of the year that women of a certain age dust off their hats to wear to church – their Easter bonnets. Here in Paradise the churches are shuttered, so the single most important day on the Christian calendar will be marked by simple observations in homes or on the internet.
Robin and I are having no guests for Easter dinner, and there will be no hiding of candy eggs in the backyard for the grandkids to hunt. Nope, ’twill be a sober Easter for certain. Such is life in the emergency.
But Sunday afternoon we are Zoom-meeting with Robin’s side of our blended family, accepting seeing them in two dimensions instead of the preferred three as way better than not seeing them at all. I’ve learned how to change the background on my Zoom image, so this is what the other participants will see. Like I said, sober.
[Granddaughter Elsa may recognize the view – it’s from our tent camper parked in South Mineral Creek Campground, looking eastward toward the Red Mountains.]
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Any fisherman looking at the cartoon below will instantly identify with Ernest H.. There are times better left undocumented. To place yourself in a pristine environment, cast your line into a gorgeous river, and then pull out one of these puckered-up mutants is a blow that it might take the rest of the day to recover from.
Now I know that there are fisherman who deliberately go after carp, filling their tackleboxes with putrid baits and heavy lines, and who are delighted when they pull something out of the water that looks like a serious mistake had been made back in Creation times. I also know that there are cooks who work hard to come up with carp recipes that can create a momentary illusion of edibility. Until the person begins to chew, that is.
I know both of these things. What I don’t know is why they bother? A well-cooked carp is still a plate of mud.
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It could be that the worst of our trial is passing. That’s cold comfort to the families of the tens of thousands worldwide that have passed away from complications of Covid-19, and there are tough economic times to come for many of us. But we are given leave to start thinking about when the masks can come off and when we can begin to walk the streets without dodging one another.
I think that for me personally it will be quite a while before I shake anyone’s hand – I’ll be giving them a sincere Namaste instead with that short bow of the head.
And hugging … don’t even think about it. Come at me with open arms and you’ll send me screeching into a back bedroom to bar the door.
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Little Home In The Valley 
About 50 years ago a friend of my dad’s was sharing a carp recipe with my dad. It goes something like this: Take a cedar shingle and put the cleaned carp filet on it ; load the shingle and fish with orange and lemon slices, season with salt, pepper, oregano, rosemary and butter. Bake for 30 minutes at 350. Throw away everything else and East the shingle!
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Love the story. The friend was a truth-teller. Have you ever been to Joe Tess’ restaurant in Omaha? They basically serve fried seafood, and the fish offerings are either catfish or carp. I went there once and when I found this out, I ordered the carp, thinking that if it was ever going to be good, it would be at a place that served it proudly.
I ate the shingle.
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