In the Northern Hemisphere where I grew up, Easter is a spring holiday rather than an autumn one. At my home on the outskirts of Detroit we could expect the snow and ice to have melted and crocuses and tulips to be in bloom. After a cold, dark winter, Easter represented light, warmth, rebirth.
For a kid who did not like primary school, Easter meant that a three-month summer holiday was not far away. Oh, the possibilities.
Many of these feelings of anticipation and hope could be summed up in a single ritual: the Easter Egg Hunt -- searching, seeking, filling my basket. As such, the Easter basket became a symbol of discovering the unknown and filling my life with richness. I'm sure those old baskets are still stored away in my parents' basement.
Fast forward 40 years and the most common basket I seem to encounter on a regular basis is what I'm told is the too-hard basket. Before moving to New Zealand nine years ago I had never heard of the too-hard basket, but now it's nearly a constant. I'm not saying it's as Kiwi as rugby, Marmite and pavlova, but I run into it a lot.
Don't get me wrong, I love living here. Most people are incredibly friendly and there is a welcome dearth of helicopter parents, handguns and inhumane healthcare policies.