The first person to complain about my plans for Easter brunch is the carpenter. He and his wife are our restaurant and dining BFFs.
"Bagels and lox?" he says. "Are we having Jewish Easter?" he asks.
"I am pretty sure Jesus was a Jew," I say, rolling my eyes. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to find real bagels around here?"
Mr. Kamikaze is next. He spies the mini Margherita pizzas. "Pizza"? he says. "We're having Italian Easter?"
"The Romans had something to do with Easter too, you dolt," I remind him. Am I the only one around here who knows anything?
Thankfully, no one says anything about the goat cheese and baguette because I am not exactly sure where the French come in. But I do know this: traditions are important and that is why I go to the trouble year after year of making up entirely new ones. Also, I do not like ham.
The teen-ager has a suggestion for tweaking tradition. "I don't really want an Easter basket," he says. "How about just giving me cash instead?"
"What would Jesus do?" I ask him. He rolls his eyes.
"Fine," he says. "But no Peeps. Nobody eats them."
This is a ridiculous idea. Peeps martinis are an Easter tradition in our house ever since last year, or possibly the year before. How are we supposed to make Peeps martinis without the Peeps?
He has no answer for this. There will be Peeps.