The Passion of the Easter Sandwich
“He is not here: for he is risen, as he said. Come, see the place where the Lord lay. And go quickly, and tell his disciples that he is risen from the dead; and, behold, he goeth before you into Galilee; there shall ye see him: Drinking whiskey and eating hell of Easter Sandwiches.”
Hello, avid readers. I’d like to take a break from strange character pieces and half-baked political commentary to share something with you.
For the past seven years, my older brother, myself, and those friends and acquaintances converted between the two of us have observed a tradition derived from an obscure catechism regarding the celebration of the Easter holiday. While our family ritual gives nod to the figurative rebirth following the 40 days of Lent’s penitence and fasting, while it honors the Pascha of the Jews’ deliverance out of Egypt, even while it contemplates the curious theological implications of Cur Deus Homo on the shattering revelation of an incarnate God- our true purpose here is drinking whiskey. And eating Easter Sandwiches.
The Easter Sandwich is a carefully balanced melange of improbably complementary flavors. To the uninitiated, it may seem less than appetizing. However, much akin to the equally unlikely but much beloved Reuben sandwich, the confluence of the individual ingredients is what builds the dish. The several dozen converted observers of Easter Party speaks as evidence enough.
The sandwich begins with a hot dog. I tend to prefer Hebrew Nationals for their quality, cooked on a grill- and then also all beef Ballpark Franks, cooked in beer to maximize plumpness. Naturally it is wise to prepare vegetarian False Dogs, so as to not exclude vegetarians from joining in. The hot dog is arranged on a bun in the customary fashion.
The next ingredient is egg salad. I make mine with homemade mayonnaise and stone ground mustard. The egg salad is doled out atop the hot dog to taste, though generally boldness plays a role in loading down the sandwich- Christ’s resurrection, and indeed the rebirth of the land at the advent of spring time, calls for a certain kind of lust for life that only large mounds of egg salad on top of a hot dog can really do justice.
Finally, when the sandwich is mostly assembled, raw onion is added for garnish. I tend to use vidalia, finely diced with a squirt of lemon juice to pair up the breaking sulphuric bonds causing the bitter off taste in raw onion. The sandwich is garnished to the taste of the celebrant, who is now prepared for the final ingredient.
Whiskey. The celebrant draws off one or more drams of the uisce beatha, mixing with cola if necessary. Proportions are of secondary importance to ensuring that one keeps a constant flow of whiskey from the bottle to the glass, from the glass to the mouth. Several glasses in, a strange sort of alchemy takes place in the humors, such that the more whiskey one drinks the more one wants to eat Easter Sandwiches, and the more Easter Sandwiches one eats, the more one wants to drink whiskey.
Once everyone is several sandwiches in and adequately suffused with the powers of rebirth, an Easter Egg hunt begins. The traditional hunt is competitive, moreso than usual, with different eggs containing different kinds of contents. Some eggs contain conventional things, like chocolate, jelly beans, or other candies. Some eggs contain unconventional things, like facts about pirates, pills, motor oil, or hair. The general rule is that the more terrible a thing is, the more points it is worth- and the person whose egg fillings total in the most points becomes that year’s King of Easter.
The King of Easter is a largely ceremonial position, though the office does convey the power to demand a person drink another whiskey, or eat another Easter Sandwich. This power is typically abused.
Now, I can understand how certain criticisms or skeptical attitudes might crop up. Some among you might call it sacrilege. Others might call it really disgustingly unhealthy.
And to that I would answer, “Sacrilege?” We are celebrating life. What was the essence of the Divine Gift brought to the world through Christ’s sacrificial death, if not Life Everlasting? Life is drinking and eating and laughing. As Christ once said, the body is a temple. So it follows that we should fill that temple up with hot dogs, whiskey, and egg salad. I mean, seriously, this sounds like the most badass temple ever.
And to address the notion that it is somehow unhealthy to eat Easter Sandwiches and drink whiskey until you throw up- well, this woman ate 7 sandwiches and downed a third of a handle of Bourbon. Does she seem unhealthy to you?
Last year, there were satellite Easter Parties in seven places across the world. Two in Bloomington, one in Chicago, one in Austin, one in Los Angeles, one in Vancouver, one in Austria, and one in Osaka, Japan. Easter Party is an idea whose time has come, transcending language, culture, and that which divides mankind.
So do yourself a favor this year, and when Sunday rolls around, eat an Easter Sandwich.
For as it is written:
“Get ye to the house of hens, and take from there the fifth part of their bounty. Boil well the eggs, chop finely, dress light with mayonaise and fold until they mixture is creamy. Season to taste.
Boil thy wieners. Place thy boiled wieners in buns and top them then with the salad. Garnish with onion.”