My parents, like everybody’s, probably did a lot of things raising me that messed me up in one way or another (Hi, Mom! Hi Dad!). When I was a kid I was sure that one of those things was my mom’s health food crusade. At its peak, chocolate and sugar were banned from the house in favor of honey, carob, and fruit juice. I remember the fruit roll-ups fad that swept the elementary school when we were not allowed to have fruit roll-ups. Instead, my mom made all-natural fruit puree and put it in the food dehydrator on a cookie tray, then cut the resulting stiff, brown sheet into rectangles. It actually tasted pretty good, but I was swept with debilitating lunchroom shame, gnawing a thick, diarrhea-colored piece of apricot-pear puree instead of peeling a real fruit roll-up off of the wrapper in long strips and wrapping it around my finger. I was sure I was scarred forever.

Of course, that doesn’t seem so bad these days, from the long perspective the years provide. I never buy fruit roll-ups; when I see them going for 99 cents in the produce section of the store I think, “That’s just sugar and food coloring! Rip-off!” Another thing I used to complain about, Easter Sunday, now seems downright idyllic. The night before Easter, we’d put carrots in our shoes for the easter bunny, which he would mysteriously replace in the night with a brightly colored easter egg. Before church, we’d search the house for carefully hidden baskets. Then we’d put on our frilliest dresses and lace-edged ankle socks and shiny white shoes (or a suit and clip on tie, in the case of my brother) and head off to Easter Mass. My dad and I were both lectors, so once in awhile I got the chance to read from the Bible in front of the whole church. I loved singing the Easter hymns, especially “Joyful, Joyful.” After Mass, we’d head home for an age-graded easter egg hunt and a feast of handed down family recipes, usually prepared by my dad.

The point of contention in the family was the content of the Easter baskets themselves. If my mom had had her way, they would have contained only trail mix, carob malt balls, sugar free gum and travel games. My dad’s influence meant we each got a big chocolate bunny to eat bit by bit over the course of a week or so. But trail mix? It just seemed so… lame. So un-Eastery! How could we possibly celebrate the day with peanuts and raisins? There was a fair amount of eye-rolling. Scarred for life, my siblings and I suggested to each other. The deprivation! The utter lack of sugar! It was downright un-American!

Last Sunday my mom and I were reminiscing together about the good old days, which I now miss. She is still the most health-conscious person that I know, but she has mellowed quite a bit since my elementary school years. The subject of carob came up and she laughed. “It’s a good thing I’m not that way anymore,” she said. “Yes, mom,” I said, “But I don’t get to benefit from it since you no longer give me Easter baskets!” This weekend a heavy package arrived in the mail. it was a wall sconce, brim-full of chocolates and jelly beans. “A real, adult Easter basket,” read the note. A sweet gift, in more ways than one. I called my mom to thank her. She had a confession to make: the jelly beans were sugar-free. She insists she didn’t notice it until it came time to rip open the package, but I wonder…