Wild Flower Easter

24th April 2011 - Easter Sunday

Before breakfast I peel off the baking paper from the base of another long rectangle of meringue that I cooked yesterday, spread it with a whole jar of lemon curd, top that with a pint of whipped cream and scatter over three punnets of raspberries and chopped strawberries. And get ready to roll. Fortunately my very observant niece who is watching this process suggests I roll it up from the long end instead of the short end to make more slices. We do it together and manage to curl it onto my biggest chopping board, covered with foil, without too much cream and fruit squidging out of the ends.

My husband packs it carefully in the back of the car along it the rest of the food boxes we’re taking to my sister’s for Easter Sunday lunch. On the way we stop to pick up my father. I stow away his bag of bananas and oranges in the back. We set off and immediately hear a crash and a crunch and I know the fruit has fallen on top of the meringue roulade. My niece and I look at each other and laugh - knowing that most things are rescuable with more strawberries and a dusting of icing sugar.

We tuck into a sumptuous feast - a family team effort of smoked mackerel pate and beetroot crackers, roast lamb, courgette gratin, earthy lentils, aubergine parmigiano, new potatoes, salad and salsa verde to die for - followed by the slightly squashed meringue, a Breton butter cake, stewed rhubarb and a bowl of mascapone yogurt cream.

Afterwards my father climbs the stairs with his sticks to rest and recover. The young and beautiful and tired slather on the sun cream, lie on blankets on the grass or sit under the umbrella shade and my sister leads me and my husband on a wonderful walk through the land bordering their farm - woods, meadows and boggy patches. I love the swathes of wild flowers, bluebells and tiny violets, ladies smocks and white shirt buttons. She shows us the difference between cowslips and oxslips growing side by side like cousins in the grass.

Much, much later but before it’s time for bed, my husband retires to sleep under the covers, my niece writes the story of her broken painted egg from Prague, and her husband reads the Lonely Planet guide to Syria. I wash up this morning’s breakfast dishes, sifting through the pictures of this Easter Sunday in my mind, counting my blessings - as precious as all the wild flowers in a meadow.