Back in the ol' country, we have our very own Easter tradition. One that I haven't seen anywhere else. It's one of those things that I've missed since I've moved to Denmark. I'm referring to the tradition of blood & gore. Every Easter, the Norwegian people gorge themselves, not only on sugary snacks, oranges and excessive skiing, but on horror and mystery, both on the screen and in books. The term is "Easter chills" and it's a very big deal.
When I was a kid, back when there were very few television channels, each channel would create their own Easter horror/mystery series, and there would be a vote at the of the holidays to see who did the best job. To many Norwegians, Easter is less about Jesus and more about murder and mayhem. And fluffy baby chickens.
Every year, the mister snickers a bit when I get my seasonal craze on, and start dragging branches into the house to be decorated with little, wooden bunnies, or when I start to make googly eyes at chickens-wearing-outfits table decorations.
And every year, we stuff two Easter eggs full of candy and hide them. I hide the misters egg and he hides mine (because I make him). Then I spend forever trying to find mine, becoming both tired and frustrated, while it takes him all of fifteen seconds to find his, no matter how brilliantly I've hidden it.
Every. Friggin. Year.
And yet, he won't be able to find his glasses if I move them ten inches to the right...