Holey hands

Just back from Buffalo, I’m feeling much younger, thank you. At the surprise birthday party we threw together for my in-law equivalent’s 80th, I calculated the average age at 71. At least four guests had reached four score and nine, probably from that good Polish food and those “mmm, mmm good” Easter traditions — horseradish symbolizes suffering, colored eggs represent the tomb, or so the flier I picked up the Brigadoonish Broadway Market insisted. At least I scored the Last Supper in chocolate form, made by fund-raising women of a local church who looked to have used the “one for me, one for the mold” formula. The devout do chocolate differently for sure. I only regret not asking about the protocol for consuming the dark body of Christ. Head first?