As a Jewish child, I missed out on so much. Santa never came, and forget about the Easter Bunny. That means no magical gifts on Christmas morning, or chocolate eggs on Easter Sunday. Not all Jewish kids feel they’ve missed out on something because we have our own special celebrations–who wouldn’t want to dress up like Queen Esther for Purim?–but they’re just not the same.
Since I am with J., I now get to experience these long longed-for holidays in our bicultural home. Some bunny has indeed visited our home every Easter Sunday, leaving behind a basket of treats for me and Easter eggs hidden through the house for J. The baskets the bunny brings me aren’t always filled with chocolate treats–sometimes they’re a rare find like expensive organic vegetables from the market–but their contents are a welcome surprise every year.
This year, we strayed from tradition, however. First of all, the bunny arrived Saturday evening, since he had a lot of houses to get to on Sunday and didn’t want to have to wake up too early. J. put on her game face and found all the eggs but the most cleverly hidden one, but it just wasn’t the same as an early Sunday hunt. And me? I got gout, which I think was kind of mean of the bunny, and nothing else. No basket, no organic vegetables, nothing. I was kind of disappointed.
Despite my dejection, J. and I went out to the grocery store that afternoon, where I tried not to feel guilty that employees were having to work on the holiday. We walked up and down the aisles, as we do sometimes, and J., feeling bad for locking the bunny out so we could sleep in, pointed to items she might buy me to assuage her guilt. I mostly pouted, but I accepted the offer of Jelly Bellies. However sad I am, I can always force down a Jelly Belly or two.
Not an hour later, we arrived back home to a lovely and unexpected container of mini Easter eggs at the door, along with a note: “Enjoy. Bob the Bunny.” Neither of us recognized the writing so we spent the day racking our brains for the culprit. When we asked some friends if they knew Bob the Bunny, they responded: “We only know Peter.” Everyone we suspected, when asked, seemed genuinely stumped. So either someone we know and love is a psychopathic liar, or we have not yet solved this magical mystery.
So I beg you, Bob, please identify yourself. I’ll never be able to live with myself if I can’t thank you personally for your generosity and kindness. Remember my Jewish guilt and my need for reciprocity in all my relationships. How can I leave out carrot tops for you if I don’t know which bunny you are? If you don’t want to reveal yourself, you could always provide an alias. I won’t tell.