The Peppercorn Eye

My people come from Ireland and Poland (other places too, countries that don't even exist any more -- but for the sake of clarity, this is the majority of my blood line) and through generations both sides of my family have been Roman Catholic. As a child I went to the church on the end of my Grandmother's street in Camden, NJ. Now some of you may not know this, but Camden's latest claim to fame was that it knocked Detroit out of the number one slot for "Most Violent City" (Woo Hoo! My home town!). While it was threatening no one for the number one slot in the late 60's/early 70's, it was a rough place none the less -- but that church was a kind of neutral zone and at Easter time, it served most clearly as the center of the neighborhood. Back then, some of the Masses were still offered in Polish (my Grandmother and father still both spoke it off and on) and the congregation clung to the Vatican One way of doing things.

Today, I am thinking of one of those traditions.

On Good Friday, after the Stations of the Cross, you would bring a basket of food to the church to be blessed. This meant crawling on your knees down the aisle, with the basket in your hands, all the way to the altar. Did I mention the floor was marble? It was. But the pain in my knees is not the most vivid memory. What holds my imagination today is the contents of that basket: colored eggs, babka bread, and a lamb made of butter with a peppercorn eye.

It was the only time of year that butter was allowed to be shaped like an animal.