Happy Easter to All

by pjmcbride

“…a day on which the Christian religion celebrates the resurrection of Jesus Christ,” as the Huffington Post helpfully tells those of us who haven’t heard of it.

And now that Lent–the unspecified “for a limited time only!” fish sandwich sale period–is over…did you know that you have Catholics to thank for the McDonald’s Filet-O-Fish sandwich (and, I’m guessing, by extension all fast-food fish sandwiches)? According to MentalFloss, a McDonald’s franchisee in a heavily Catholic neighborhood complained to Ray Kroc that his sales dropped significantly during Lent. He and Kroc worked on developing a non-meat sandwich alternative. Kroc came up with the Hula Burger–a pineapple ring on a bun, and the franchisee came up with the Filet-O-Fish. Guess which one caught on.


“You’d get more readers if you led off with that,” Nick says, but his judgment is impaired by raging narcissism.

–I hear an imperious knock on my door, and open it to find Nick sitting on the porch, with a resplendent Easter basket dangling from his jaws.

“What a surprise! Thank you–”

“Hold this for me, will you?” He drops it and leaps into my oak tree, balancing precariously as he inches his way up a branch and tries to winkle a robin’s egg from its nest. The parents circle him screeching, fruitlessly pecking at his gleaming scales.

“You don’t need to do that,” I inform him. “I think you should go back home. Your owner told me she just set out a bowl of egg salad for you.”

“I don’t believe you.” He quickly turns his head to snap up a scolding squirrel and swallows it whole.

“Garnished with marshmallow Peeps.”

He regards me, still licking his chops from the squirrel.

“You can’t fool me. Peeps only lay marshmallow eggs. You can’t make salad from those.”

“OK, just get out of my tree. Or are you stuck up there, like you were in the backyard tree that one time?”

“Just watch me!” He begins laboriously backing down, wings carefully folded, with much thrashing of tail. I take the opportunity to grab the Easter basket, dart back in the house, and slam the door. He begins to wail piteously, but I start consuming the contents of the basket, knowing he is afraid to actually look in my windows.