Each Easter dinner of my childhood started with my father, sitting at the honored, head of the table, hands together in the ritualistic prayer style saying “Bless Us Oh Lord, these thy gifts…”
After the prayer he would start carving the whole leg of lamb that my mother had spent hours carefully seasoning and roasting so that it would be Easter perfect!
I sat just three chairs down from the carving epic center, and every year, I was appalled.
How could it be that on the day we celebrated the “Risen Lamb” we would cruelly cut off one of its legs and then devour it for our celebratory meal?
“I refuse to eat a leg of a cute, fluffy lamb!” was one of my earliest recalled responses to the meat that got placed on my plate.
This was followed by my depression-era-no-nonsense-father’s reply that was not so great.