Easter Memories: Chocolate Bunnies, Family Chaos and a Dash of Roman History

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Growing up, Easter was never just a holiday—it was an adventure. It was like Christmas's laid-back cousin who shows up with candy instead of presents, makes you laugh until your stomach hurts and somehow always turns the family reunion into a memorable saga. My childhood Easters were a mix of egg-dying mishaps, Southern cooking and my wonderful yet delightfully chaotic redneck family. And somewhere in between the jelly beans and the bi-annual family feud, I stumbled upon an unexpected connection to history—a thread that weaves together my granny’s house and the Roman Empire itself.

Easter 1979, living at Granny's house.

Let’s start with my kid-brain understanding of Easter. Sure, we went to church and yes, I heard the story of the resurrection—front and center in the Southern Baptist sermons of my childhood. But for me, Easter was less about sermons and more about sugar highs, brightly colored baskets and that magical creature called the Easter Bunny. Forget spiritual reflection—I had candy to eat and chocolate bunnies to befriend (and eventually eat, eyes first).

Easter 1980 in the little yellow house on Easter Lane

Easter didn’t have the heavy expectations of Christmas. There were no letters to write or wish lists to hint at. No tangled lights to hang a month in advance. Easter was spontaneous, simple and magical. Unless, of course, the magic of "Easter Eve" caught you boiling and dying two dozen eggs while trying not to crack them—or your patience.

Becki and I Easter 1980 in the little yellow house on Easter Lane

Every "Easter Eve" (a term I’ve claimed as gospel), my mom went into egg-prep overdrive. She boiled extra eggs to account for cracks and turned the rejects into her famous potato salad, chock full of onions, bell peppers and yellow mustard, for the next day's festivities. Meanwhile, my sister and I got to work dyeing the survivors. We used anything from Paas dye kits to good ol’ food coloring in vinegar-water-filled coffee cups. Fun? Sure—if you like balancing eggs with a flimsy wire dipper that bends under pressure like my attempts at folding laundry.


And then there was the cake—coconut, because I made the mistake of admitting I liked it once. After a childhood filled with coconut cakes for every Easter and birthday, let’s just say I’ve been mostly coconut-free ever since, there are times when I will buy a coconut cake just to remember my mama.

Me, Mama's Easter Cake and my sister, Becki

But the eggs, oh, the eggs! My sister and I poured our tiny hearts into perfecting them, convinced the Easter Bunny would reward our efforts with bigger, better baskets. Spoiler alert: he didn’t. By Easter morning, the eggs had been relocated to the fridge and our familiar childhood baskets took their place, brimming with candy that never changed but was always perfect. A large cream/nougat filled chocolate egg, a couple of Russell Stover eggs, small foil covered chocolate eggs, Robin's eggs, Peeps, jelly beans and Easter themed circus peanuts sitting atop Easter grass. Then those hollow Palmer chocolate bunnies were my absolute favorite—though my sister tormented me by insisting they were alive. Let me tell you, it’s hard to enjoy a bunny when you’re convinced you’re committing bunny-cide. I would usually eat all of the other chocolate over a few weeks before apologizing to the bunny, pick out his sugary yet chalky white and blue eyes so he doesn't see that I'm going to break pieces from him to consume.

Easter 1980, the yellow curtains bothered me more than the breaker box in the dining room

If we weren’t hunting eggs in our backyard, we were off to my granny’s house—where the real magic always unfolded. Picture this: my dad and uncles, beers in hand, gleefully hiding eggs in places no sane person would ever consider (cow poop, anyone?), while my cousin Missy scrambled up trees like a squirrel on a mission. The rest of us scoured the yard, determined to claim the "special" egg—a prize tucked inside a Leggs pantyhose container with a few crumpled dollars that felt like winning the lottery.

And then there was the food. Oh, the food! My dad and Uncle Gene manned the backyard grill, turning out perfectly charred, smoky chicken legs that still hold the title of my all-time favorite. Inside, Aunt Joan was a culinary wizard, whipping up fried okra, crispy fried squash, and creamy butter beans, while Granny’s ham reigned supreme in all its juicy, flavorful glory along with her amazing cornbread. Of course, no Easter feast was ever complete without my mom’s southern-style mustard potato salad. She made it just the way she liked it, and to her—it was the undisputed star of every plate.

Easter 1981, I was NOT interested in photo ops

Then, like clockwork, the family entertainment began. My cousin La Shea and Uncle Mike were the usual culprits, finding a reason—any reason—to start an argument. It didn’t matter if the topic was trivial; before long, voices would rise, and my dad and Uncle Gene would play peacemakers. I can't think of a time they managed to calm the storm, but more often than not, it would escalate until someone stormed out, tires screeching down the driveway.

Easter 1981, my cousins and sister, I was not having it

For us kids, the chaos was as much a part of Easter as the egg hunt or ham dinner. It was tradition—just like Missy climbing trees to fetch the eggs my dad always hid especially for her. If La Shea and Uncle Mike didn’t go at it, holidays felt strangely incomplete, like a bunny missing its ears. To this day, I giggle when I think of them and I love them both dearly.

Easter 1981, we almost got it right, my cousin Missy is hiding behind us all

I forgot to mention, only a fraction of the eggs were ever found. The ones that remained hidden had a way of revealing themselves weeks later—usually with a dramatic explosion of their rotten, hard-boiled innards breaking free from their once-bright neon or pastel shells.

My cousin Mikey and I on a swing my dad actually built.

Remember I mentioned a connection to Roman History? Now, here’s the twist: as I’ve gotten older, my understanding of Easter has deepened. Beneath the chocolate and chaos lies a story rooted in history—Roman history, to be exact. The Easter we celebrate today wouldn’t exist without the Roman Empire’s influence. Jesus’s crucifixion, central to the holiday, was carried out under Roman rule by Pontius Pilate. Fast forward a few centuries and it was Roman Emperor Constantine who helped shape Easter as we know it, deciding it would fall on the Sunday after the first full moon of the spring equinox. Talk about long-lasting traditions! And yet, even with all its historical weight, Easter at my granny’s house remained gloriously unpretentious—a blend of old Southern quirks and heartfelt connections.

My dad and Granny in her kitchen circa 1993

Here in 2025, things look a little different. Terry’s working while I'm off at home and we skipped the egg-dyeing ritual. But, of course, the Easter Bunny came and Palmer chocolate bunnies made their appearance because some traditions are non-negotiable. Tomorrow, we’ll most likely hit the stores for post-Easter candy sales, keeping the sugar rush alive for just a little longer.

My favorite, Biggy Ears by Palmer

Easter is still a time for reflection—whether on childhood memories, the historical roots of the holiday, or the simple joys of togetherness. And while I don’t crave coconut cake anymore, I treasure the traditions I grew up with—and the hilariously messy, love-filled family that made them unforgettable. What About You? So, how do you celebrate Easter? What are your favorite traditions—or your funniest family mishaps? When you dye eggs, do us use Pass Kits or Food Coloring? Let me know in the comments below—I’d love to hear your stories! And hey, if you enjoyed this walk down memory lane, feel free to share it, pass it along, or drop a small token of appreciation. Even a chocolate bunny will do. 😉


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