The little country church I attended as a child always hosted an egg hunt on Easter. My mother, brother, and I dyed eggs to contribute to the hunt. I loved dying the eggs, but I did not enjoy the hunt. The few children whose parents organized the hunt watched the adults hide the eggs and therefore collected the majority, leaving only a handful for the rest of us. After a year or two of seeing her children disappointed, my mother solved the problem by dying two dozen eggs: one for church and one to hide solely for my brother and me at our house.
When I became too mature for egg hunts, I continued dying eggs to contribute to the church. Now I attend a church that doesn’t host an egg hunt, and I have no children for whom to hide eggs. One would assume that my egg-dying days are over. However, such is not the case. I insist on dying eggs every year.
Why do I continue such a tradition when there are no children to benefit? The answer is simple: I love dying eggs. It’s exhilarating to dip smelly, hard-boiled eggs in equally smelly baths of colorful liquid. And, it’s a way for me to display my creative side. A few years ago, I used stickers to create faces and to give the eggs personalities, and I wrote an egg-tastic version of Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None. Here are photos of the eggs in my version of the story: