My cousin Stephanie, the one with the Sticky Buns, sent me a package that arrives just as my husband and I are having lunch. As people sometimes do, I sit there, munching my cheese, wondering out loud what the contents could possibly be. My husband, meantime, prods me to open it. Instead, I build the suspense by guessing as I contemplate.
After I'd had my last bite of lunch, I ritualistically use my napkin to wipe my hands and mouth and watch my husband's anticipation from my tilted head. Then, in a frenzied rush, I tear into the package.
Memories of our childhood rush over me as I recall growing up on our family farms. As little girls, both of us loved the baby chicks, were in awe of the hens, but avoided the rascally roosters, screaming if they tried to approach.
I will be proudly displaying these colorful crocheted creatures. In return, of course, Stephanie can have a lifetime supply of eggs. (Not crocheted eggs. Stephanie got the artsy genes of our family.)