Champagne dreams and plastic eggs
“Wait, he’s in the backyard? In the DARK?” This was the moment I knew our annual tradition was officially out of control.
The day before Easter my bestie Janet signed us up for a springtime French macaron class at Sur La Table. The event provided everything except for the final step - to bake the yummy desserts. Our plan was to finish them at my house and then fill plastic eggs with candy and trinkets for the Easter Bunny’s overnight drive-by.
We were home barely long enough to pre-heat the oven, when our friend Sarah called. She was locked out of her house and needed someone to come rescue her. Janet and I were about to put our masterpieces into the oven, so we enlisted the husbands to help her. Sarah then came over with several bottles of champagne to thank us and hung out while we baked. It would’ve been rude not to partake in her generous offerings - it was Veuve, after all - so we popped a cork. Then a second. And a third.
Our confections must have been Easter phoenixes because what I remember of Champagne Eve involved all laughter, and zero cooking. Overnight the Bunny left the girls baskets full of treats, including plastic eggs stuffed with candy, money, Chex-Mix, hummus, and handwritten IOUs for future therapy sessions. All that jerk Bunny brought me was a hangover the size of Egypt and eleventy-five thousand dishes to wash.
Friends begged to be included on the invitation list after hearing the stories, so we decided to continue the Champagne Eve tradition the following year. More bubbles, baking that somehow was still fabulous (all Janet’s doing), and eggs stuffed with items guaranteed to make the kids take advantage of more therapy IOUs. It was the kind of evening that we swore would never end up on social media because, well, jobs, societal standings, and so forth.
Champagne Eve became a thing of legends - its awesomeness grew with every hyperbolic telling of the event. We added a few more friends to the following year’s guest list - but still wanted to keep it intimate. We will start the party outside next to our beautiful pool (ambiance, obviously), then move indoors when it gets dark. Do we have anything vegan for Billy? We need to move that chair so Jeff can get his wheelchair around. What are the kids going to do? Decorations were placed, RSVP’s confirmed, magnum of champagne was chilling - it was showtime.
My backyard was full of Champagne Eve frivolity. The kids were decorating eggs, the bubbles were perfect, and our macarons were surviving yet another year. We were laughing so hard that people started wandering in to see what was going on. Our next-door neighbor was a police officer, and brought a few of his friends after their shift. A few others I didn’t know also popped in.“Billy invited us, is that ok?” Our intimate gathering had grown, the more the merrier, right?
It was starting to get dark and the backyard wasn’t well lit. We didn’t want to risk someone falling into the pool or getting hurt, so we moved the party indoors. The music was pumping and epic dance moves were on display. All the kids were watching a movie. Another successful Champagne Eve was well under way.
That is, until an uninvited bottle of tequila crashed the party.
Suddenly everyone was standing in a circle like they were about to whip out a ouija board and summon Hugh Hefner to kick the party up a notch. José Cuervo played duck, duck, goose until the bottle ran dry.
Champagne Eve became The Nightmare Before Easter.
Dancing that was likely illegal in most states was happening in my kitchen. Someone was stumbling around in Sarah’s thigh-high Jimmy Choos (that cost more than my first car). “Who is that? OMG Billy, stop inviting random people over!” Maniacal laughter - the kind that means they are up to no good - cascaded down the stairs. Inspection revealed they were riding down the stairs in my laundry basket. “This is not a Russian wedding. Please stop throwing my champagne glasses into the fireplace.” An anonymous call to the police would have been futile because they were already at my house and one of them was now wearing Sarah’s boots.
Then it dawned on me - I hadn’t seen Jeff in a while. He’s hard to miss with his giant electric wheelchair. In fact, the last time I saw him, he was in the center of the tequila circle…
I ran to ask my husband if he had seen him.“Oh, yeah. He wanted to go in the back so we picked up his chair and put him outside.”
“Wait, he’s in the backyard? In the DARK? He’s a drunk paraplegic in a yard with no lights and a 10’ deep pool!”
“He wanted to go. That probably was a bad idea now that I think about it.”
People were holding iPhone flashlights like drunk fireflies to help me look. (We found him snoring in the garage). I was grateful I didn’t need to involve the police, since they were busy singing Purple Rain in the kitchen.
And that was the grand finale of the Champagne Eve tradition.
The following morning, the kids found Easter baskets filled with delicious (not burned) confections. In addition to the usual stuffed plastic eggs, this year the Bunny also left behind multiple red Solo cups, one thigh-high boot, an empty bottle of Cuervo, and Billy face down on the front lawn.
Thank goodness for those handwritten IOUs. My kids are going to need them.
Tracy Winslow is the owner of the PREMIER YARN STORE in the Low Country - Low Country Shrimp and Knits. When Tracy isn’t imbibing Veuve, or begging Janet to bake French macarons, she is thanking God that her daughters have a fabulous sense of humor. Because, the world needs more funny people, I’m just saying… Check out all the yarn, classes, notions, and more at shrimpandknits.com.
