I used to love dyeing eggs at Eastertime. When I was little, our kitchen picnic table would be covered with newspaper and my brothers and sisters and I would gather around it waiting for my father to set out the coffee mugs filled with Paas dyes. We would bicker about who got what color first and make the grab for the clear wax crayons and the wire egg dippers. Dye would spill before the first egg even appeared. Finally, Dad would bring over the giant bowl of boiled white eggs and the dyeing frenzy would begin. I loved those simple family activities. When I had my own children, I couldn't wait to share those traditions with them. But you know what? What a royal pain in the ass it was! Hahahaha. My father dyed eggs at Eastertime every year until he passed away, even when all of his children were grown and had children of their own. I used to wonder why did he bother? But I stopped wondering that years ago after my children were grown and on their own. Every Saturday before Easter I still boil up eggs and set out the dyes. It's no longer a messy, noisy, bother. It's a simple, quiet and meditative tradition. A chance to be slow and thoughtful and spend a little time with Dad in my memory.