Sunday, April 11, 2004

Every year at Easter, my mom would steal the ears off of my chocolate bunny. I'm not sure why it was that she found the ears so appealing, but she did. And this annoyed me to no end.
But one year, I got smart. I hid the bunny in the freezer, behind the frozen mice (my mother had a snake at the time) and the ice cube trays. A few days later I heard the freezer door opening. I was sitting on the couch reading, and my back stiffened. I didn't believe that she could find the bunny, but I was concerned nonetheless. She rustled around for a few minutes, and I heard dished being moved about and drawers being opened and shut.
Moments later, I heard a loud thump followed immediately by a sharp cracking sound. My mother dissolved into laughter and I ran into the kitchen, leaving a little puff of cartoon dust behind me. My mother was sitting on the floor, her back against the cabinets, practically incoherent with giggles. In her hand she held a large meat cleaver. On the stove sat my bunny on a broken plate. Snickering like a kid, my mom explained what had happened. It was hard to piece the story together because she couldn't stop laughing.
The story that eventually came out of her was that she had found my bunny and decided that the only way to remove the ears of a frozen rabbit was with a really big knife. And so she had laid the bunny on a plate and given it a whack with the knife, expecting the ears to separate from the rest of the head neatly. Instead, because the bunny was frozen solid, she had merely dented the surface of the candy and broken the plate. I looked at the rabbit and, sure enough, it had a groove that ran roughly along the top of the head.
What are you to do with a mother that determined? I gave up and handed over the rabbit. And even today, my mom calls that knife the 'bunny killer.' She's very proud of herself.

Happy Easter to you all!

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