Even when they aren't hosting a holiday, my mom and dad transform their house into a sort of whimsical outpost for anyone in need of a little festivity. This weekend it was Easter, interpreted by my parents as an impressionist mix of deep purple lace, ceramic eggs and woodland creatures.

In the process, my dad unearthed a nearly-ruined box in the basement, but he'd packed the contents in plastic. ("Because I'm neurotic that way," he said. I love it when family members recognize the strength in neuroses.) Inside was a set of gorgeous baskets my mom had macreméd from a waxy rope in the 80s. They got us reminiscing over all the crafting we did when I was small; ceramics, jewelry, clay and crocheting. Crocheting! It was like remembering an old friend who'd transferred schools. As a kid, being able to take a ball of yarn and create something unique was truly magical. It certainly still is, but I've lost the time or patience or maybe even soul needed to access that magic. I want it back.
Even though this
Easter egg is cotton yarn, it takes me back to the days of real egg hunts, with actual hard-boiled eggs.
Unbelievably, there's a crochet
Octopus's Garden with real freshwater pearls. The Beatles bring me back to Sunday morning crafting with my mom.
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