On a hectic Easter morning two years ago, my son Vinnie and I resurrected a lamb.
Like most metaphorical projects, ours began with a casual request.
“Could you bring a lamb cake?” asked my sister in-law and Easter hostess, Donna.
Happy to support the nostalgic inclinations of my in-laws, I readily agreed (even though the last time I jumped on a Biskupic culinary trip down memory lane I spent a chunk of time and finger skin de-clawing lobster tails.)
But I digress.
For this project, we needed a lamb cake tin so I borrowed one from my friend Jeannie, who borrowed it from her mother, who inherited it from her Grandma. This tin brought a lot of history to my house. It also brought Jeannie, who wanted to supervise the process and, I assume, keep an eye on the antique tin.
We used the official lamb cake recipe, which came with the tin, and followed Jeannie’s great-grandma’s recipe exactly. We even frosted it traditionally (mainly because Jeannie, who is a little bit bossy, made us.)
Observing the hilarity and our teetering lamb, Molly decided to bake her own bunny cake. “Just for variety,” she said diplomatically.
On Easter morning we packed both cakes carefully and headed down to the family gathering in Illinois.
Molly, officially and aptly named Mary Margaret, rolled away the van door and found…a decapitated lamb.
Vinnie and I rushed the poor little lamb into the kitchen and away from the prying eyes of the relatives.
There, with a lot of love and frosting, we resurrected our lamb. Vinnie even sacrificed two of his Easter chocolates to serve as an ear (as one had been lost in the decapitation).