Recent Splats according to Miz Yank

Spring broke

Spring is a time of awakening, a time of renewal, a time of raising your hand and volunteering for activities you frankly have no business doing.

My role as the Easter Bunny at the annual neighborhood egg hunt last Saturday probably falls into that last category. Then again, when you’re 45 years old and want to participate in an event whose target demographic is the ten-and-under set, sneaking in under cover of an animal suit is pretty much your only option.

This was my fourth year in the bunny suit, so I know the ropes. That turned out to be a good thing because this year, for the first time, I had no handler. I was all set to fire my agent for negotiating a lousy contract until I learned this year’s hunt would feature a mimosa bar. Our neighborhood civic association has limited funding, and I could hardly argue with the decision to throw its resources behind such a crucial strategic initiative. And at least this year I had a viable explanation for staggering around the park. Once I had met, and possibly exceeded, my contractually-established service levels for inflicting trauma on unsuspecting little kids, I went home and turned my attention to making, or attempting to make, pizza gaina.

For the uninitiated, pizza gaina — Italian for “call your cardiologist” –is not your typical tomato sauce/mozzarella number; it’s a pie that consists of several pounds of meat and cheese, plus eighteen eggs, all encased in dough. Pizza gaina is an indulgent dish served on Easter to celebrate the end of Lent, a period of sacrifice that, for Italians, traditionally meant skipping meat on Fridays. It’s also an efficient dish: with just a single slab, you can catch up on all five weeks’ worth of missed meat. But there’s a reason Italians only eat pizza gaina once a year: it’s a royal pain in the rear to make.

I knew making pizza gaina was tough, having watched both my father’s mother and my mom make it year after year. Both Nana and Mom turned out consistently fantastic pizzas, but only after laboring over the dough for hours and then stressing the entire time the pie sat baking in the oven. If it baked for too long, the filling would be fully cooked but the dough would burn. If it didn’t bake long enough, an oozy mess might await when you went to cut it. And no matter how long you baked it, the pizza might display classic Italian stubbornness and refuse to come out of the pan. As further proof of the difficulty of the task, my sister Suzi, who does pretty much everything perfectly, tried to make pizza gaina a few years ago and nearly burned her house down.

I knew all of this, and yet I volunteered to make the pizza gain this year anyway. Mom and Dad were two days out from their move –hardly an ideal time for a major culinary undertaking –so I figured I would try to carry on the tradition. In case you’re inspired to do the same, or to start a new tradition, here’s the recipe Mom gave me, with minor adjustments.


  • 4 cups flour
  • 1 tsp salt
  • 1 tsp pepper
  • 2 eggs
  • 1/3 cake of yeast

Mix flour, salt and pepper in a large pot. Add eggs. Mix yeast with one cup warm water. Add to dry ingredients and work well. Grease pot and dough. Cover and let rise ’til double, approximately one hour, and then punch down and shape. Return after one hour to find your particular dough does not believe in Easter, because it has not risen. Punch it anyway, then throw in the trash, where it lands like a flour cannonball.

wrecked dough

What atheist dough looks like before you catapult it into the trash.

Drive to grocery store for replacement yeast, because the only other yeast you have on hand is in a six-pack of beer. Return home and repeat first six steps, doing celebration dance at the sight of the risen dough.

Let stand 20 minutes. Roll to fit over greased 9 x 13″ pan –a roasting pan without the rack usually works–well enough so the top can be sealed. “Well enough so the top can be sealed” means you will roll the dough to the point where it’s so thin you can read the classifieds through it and then maybe, just maybe, it will be long enough to make a complete seal across the top as you fold it over. To be continued, because we Italians believe in suspense.


  • 3 and 1/2 lbs of ham, cubed
  • 1 and 1/4 lbs muenster cheese, cubed
  • 18 large eggs
  • 1 cup grated Italian cheese (such as pecorino romano)

Scramble eggs well. Add rest of ingredients, mix well, and pour into pan. Cover with remaining dough, attempt to seal in the filling by pinching dough around the edges. Glance over at countertop and discover “rest of ingredients” apparently did not include the cup of Italian cheese, because it’s still sitting on top of the cutting board where you grated it. Carefully peel back the dough you just sealed, sprinkling expletives liberally as you go, and dump in forgotten Italian cheese. Attempt to stir contents with one hand while holding up the dough lid with the other. Attempt to reseal dough. The dough lets you know what it thinks of this process by refusing to seal in one corner.

Bake at 350 degrees on lower rack in oven until brown – 1-1/2 to 1 -3/4 hours. Before putting in oven, pierce top with fork. Curse yourself for being the kind of person who stupidly does not read the whole recipe before starting to cook because, if you had, you might have noticed that, from an order of operations perspective, the instruction to pierce the top should have come before the instruction to bake at 350 rather than after. Consider removing pizza to pierce it but decide you’ve already angered the dough enough for one afternoon.

After 15 minutes, turn on oven light to monitor progress and discover filling has begun to leak out of the unsealed corner and to pool atop the dough. Turn off light and resolve to wait an hour before risking another peek. Return to this:


Stop yourself from thinking, “It could have been worse,” because it still has time to get worse.

Remember Mom’s advice to lay a sheet of aluminum foil loosely on top for the last 15 minutes if browning too quickly. Discover you have no aluminum foil. Curse as you search for acceptable substitute and find only a silicone baking sheet liner. Place silicone liner atop dough and hope for the best.

Remove pizza, which appears done after 1-1/2 hours. After removing from oven, let stand 5-10 minutes and invert on rack. Or invert 90 % of it, because 10% decides to stay bonded to the pan.


Conduct a visual inspection of the inverted 90% and discover it’s oozing filling in a way that reminds me of how the Cutlass 88 Oldsmobile we had in the early ’80s used to leak oil.


Brainstorm ways to reunite the inverted 90% with its family back in the pan so that it will eventually emerge as an intact whole. Google “Is duct tape edible?”

Resign yourself to placing the mostly empty pan on top of the inverted 90%, returning silicone liner-covered pizza to oven, and hoping the entire big mess will, like a sitcom, find a way to come together in the last 5 minutes.

Remove pizza from oven, wait 10 minutes, and voila!


Spend 3 minutes lamenting your Italian heritage. Had you been half-French, you would have quit at the quiche stage and wouldn’t have troubled yourself with dough lids or pie inversion, meaning you’d be on your second glass of wine by now.

Let the pizza (and you) cool for several hours. Cut into inch-thick slabs and stack on a plate such that the pieces that look like they’ve been attacked by the Easter Bunny are hidden under a pile of pretty ones. Pass it all off with arrogance when your parents show up on Easter morning, and beam when they tell you your grandmother would be proud.


Hare Raising

Last year, I volunteered to don a rabbit suit for my neighborhood’s annual Easter celebration.  It wasn’t entirely without incident—I faced  some major costume adversity along the way—but it was nothing that a mascot professional like myself couldn’t handle.  Impressed by my rookie outing, my neighbor “Toni” asked me to suit up again this year.

This time she gave me more advance notice –she knows skills like mine are in high demand—and that allowed me to negotiate some new terms of engagement.

First, I insisted that the costume be brought up to code.  The industry might overlook a single year as a one-eyed rabbit, but two in a row could easily relegate my career to low-paying niche roles.

I also arranged for a transportation upgrade. Last year I walked to the venue and used the nearby home of two complete strangers as my dressing room.  This made for a rather awkward moment when I had to ask one of them to glue my eye back onto my face.  Toni agreed to drop off the costume at my house the night before so I could change in the comfort of my own home, and to have an escort pick me up and bring me to the park.

I wasn’t home when Toni dropped off the newly repaired costume last night, but she sent me a message to let me know she’d left it for me.

“No random blog entries about animal carcasses being left on your doorstep,” she texted.

Writing that sort of a post was the last thing on my mind when I pulled the costume out of the bag this morning, mainly because “animal carcass” would have been paying the suit a major compliment.

The repair crew had worked diligently and did the best they could, despite poor source material.  The wayward right eye had been meticulously re-adhered, which helped, but I was slightly concerned to see that a paperclip had been deployed to keep a neck seam together.

And then there was the matter of the face. Even with both eyes intact, it doesn’t evoke Bugs Bunny so much as Edward Munch’s “The Scream.”  As kid reaction goes, we mascots generally aim for a hug-to-scream ratio of two-to-one or better, but that face had stacked the deck heavily in favor of screams.

This rabbit ain’t silly. It’s scary.

I stepped into the suit at 9:50 a.m. and confirmed that it was still the same oxygen and sensory deprivation chamber I remembered.  At 9:55, a late-model Volvo sedan had pulled into the driveway.  (I know these details only because my housemate relayed them to me.)  The driver and a handler emerged and escorted me to the car, and we rode to the park in what I assume was climate-controlled comfort.

As soon as I got out of the car, Toni announced my presence on a megaphone and kicked off the hunt.  To ensure that the older kids don’t overrun the little ones, the organizers stage the hunt in different sections of the park according to age.  Since my target audience was kids under five, I wandered off towards what looked like the shortest group of blobs.

My instincts were correct and I had found the youngest kids.

Their hunt, however, had been infiltrated by one slightly older and precocious child who said, “Wait a minute, that’s a person. I see human skin.”

I’m sure he did. The bunny suit paws are separate from the body, so my skin got exposed any time I attempted a movement more strenuous than a shrug.  The smallest children didn’t seem to notice, but this kid’s parents probably had to come up with some sort of an explanation.  Maybe they told him the Easter Bunny had a touch of mange.

This year, just like last year, lots of little kids wanted to hug me.  (And my stalker was back, though she didn’t seem quite as excited to see me.  I think she’s moved on to Santa Claus.)  But for every child that loved me, there was at least one more who fled screaming, as if he hadn’t been visited by the Easter Bunny but sprayed by the Easter Skunk.

A less confident mascot might be dismayed by a bad hug-to-scream ratio, but I know it’s no reflection on my skills.  I firmly believe they’ll want me back next year and I intend to make a few more demands when I renegotiate my contract.

In addition to valet service, I expect one more handler, because a mascot of my caliber warrants an entourage.  Not to mention a costume change.  It’s about time to pull this rabbit out of a new hat.