Easter was always the most joyous holiday in our house while I was growing up.

I’ve always said that was because of my mother, who not only was very religious but was predestined to love it because of her very name — Pasqualina. She was named after her Italian grandmother, and although mom’s name was “Americanized” over the years to Pauline, Pasqualina literally means “female child of Easter.”

How can you not go crazy for the holiday when you are named after the darned thing?

So, Mom did it up big. We colored the eggs and then hunted them on Sunday morning — before church. Then, after church, we were given our baskets, filled to the brim with chocolates, jelly beans, baseball cards (for me), jewelry (for my sisters) by the Easter Bunny — who I have to admit, I never could quite figure out how he got in the house. Santa was one thing — OK, maybe the chimney was a tight fit, but at least it was a way in. That giant rabbit? I had no idea how he did it.

In the meantime, Dad did the cooking, usually homemade macaroni — gnocchi or cavatelli — along with sausage and meatballs, ham, turkey and lamb, Easter pie stuffed with prosciutto, ricotta, mozzarella and salami and all the sides.

And always, in his heavy Italian accent that........

© Finger Lakes Times