Plastic boxes and rainbow baskets sat on the kitchen table, with pastel envelopes leaning against them at various angles. It was Easter Sunday, and my mom’s coworker clearly must have dropped by, because Mom doesn’t normally allow this much sugar in the house all at once. Chocolate bunnies hopped out of their packaging, and tinfoil got strewn across the table, as chocolate eggs were devoured, seven at a time. Jelly beans of all flavors were tossed into hungry mouths as well, all with the sole intent of getting hyper off of sugar that day.

But I was used to this. And I wanted a bit more than food on this day, so I asked Dad to tell me stories about his Easters growing up in a Greek Orthodox household. Dipping eggs in red dyes was his favorite part, he said. He also loved watching his uncle roast a lamb on one of those outdoor stoves. They’d collect pine cones to kindle the fire. Roast potatoes, flaky sweet breads, the lamb, and the colored eggs—that’s what Easter was to him. So after I stuffed myself to the point where cocoa lingered on my breath for hours, Mom decided we’d have a Greek Easter dinner the Sunday after.