Ah, Easter. That magical time when the air is filled with the scent of blooming flowers, the sound of chirping birds, and the unmistakable aroma of impending family-induced chaos. A holy celebration of resurrection, renewal—and rampant overeating.
This year, we had it. We were prepared. The plan was set, laminated, blessed by three sisters and confirmed via WhatsApp. My parents were to bring the šunka, my sister volunteered to make the francuska salad, and I—foolish, hopeful, innocent—was in charge of… existing, I suppose. Sitting at the table, nodding, offering polite compliments. A passive participant in the symphony of tradition. Everything was meticulously planned, down to the last dyed egg.
But Easter had its own agenda, and clearly, no one cc’d us.
The day before the grand feast, my mother called with the urgency of someone announcing a tsunami. “There won’t be enough šunka,” she announced. My immediate thought: How is this possible? 15 kilos of meat won’t be enough? Apparently, she had gone to pick up the holy ham, only to discover that we won’t have enough to feed our big family. “You’ll have to get more meat,” she said, as if that was a casual, last-minute errand and not a spiritual quest through pre-holiday supermarket madness. So there I was, on Holy Saturday on my way to get more šunka, and my father-in-law got 5 kilos of janjetina. Because, what is Easter without a piece of meat?
Then came the call from my sister. Her kid was sick. But of course, they would still come. Because it’s Easter. And nothing says “He is risen” like a toddler with a fever licking your couch cushions. I paused for a moment, mentally preparing what will happen next. Panic mode: activated.
And yet, like the loaves and fishes (but with mayonnaise), the food multiplied. There was too much of everything. Francuska enough to feed an army. Šunka in every corner. Eggs everywhere. The janjetina—our heroic, panic-purchased backup meat—sat in solemn, greasy silence, untouched. A lamb sacrificed in vain. A beautiful, succulent monument to our Easter neuroses.
As guests arrived in waves—some coughing, others bearing baskets with vague smells and questionable Tupperware—I watched the table slowly disappear under an avalanche of tradition. Everyone nodded in approval, declaring it “not too salty this year” and “better than last time” with the reverence of food critics at a Michelin-starred restaurant.
At some point, I realised: we do this every year. We tell ourselves it will be chill. Just the basics. We’ll scale it back. We’ll simplify. It’s not about the food, it’s about the family. And then, somehow, we end up treating Easter like it’s the final round of MasterChef: Balkan Edition. And God help you if you forget the pinca.
So, naturally, somewhere between the fourth helping of francuska and the dramatic unveiling of the untouched janjetina, someone said what we were all thinking: “Next year, we’re not doing it like this.”
Next year, we’ll keep it simple. No frenzy. No 17 types of meat. Just coffee, eggs, and a polite nod to tradition. Next year, we’ll stay sane.
Of course, we said that last year too.
But hope springs eternal—just like the leftovers.
Leave a Reply