you remember Easter semi-fondly.

When I was around six or seven, my Sunday school teacher passed around a sign up sheet to make fruit salad for Easter the next week.  I remember assessing this list at my desk as she stood by, looking over each fruit and what my fellow Sunday school classmates had chosen.  I also remember feeling slightly adult at having this power to choose what I was going to bring to our Easter party.  It was a request never made of me before, and I needed a lot of time to think it over.

Many people signed up for bananas.  Pfft, how pedestrian.  And pears?  Who ate pears?  Kiwis?  Those fuzzy little bastards Pam tried to push into my face at the grocery store?  No.  None of that for me.

"Apples," I decided, proudly pointing out the word, and my Sunday School Teacher scribbled my name next to it.

When I left that day, I informed my mom about this promise, and she nodded along and shuffled me to my car.

Of course, the next week, this tremendous responsibility did not cross my mind as I was again shuffled to church.  That was, until my mom, stopped short in the parking lot, realizing this foible.

She called out to my father sitting in the car.  He looked confused as she demanded he hand over his after church snack banana.  I also remember him looking a little sad as she took it from him.

Oh Past Georgette!  You and your hubris!  Remember, you looked down on those banana sign-upers with such disdain.  Look at you now!  I suggested against this, but my mom disagreed.  So single banana armed, my mom shuffled me over to Sunday school, and she assuaged my worries, saying that I at least had something to bring.

I was the first kid in Sunday school that day, so when the Assistant Sunday School Teacher came up to me to ask for the promised apple, I lamely handed her my single banana, almost near tears and extremely chagrined.

Later on, when other students brought their appropriately assigned goods, my Sunday School Teacher stood above a large glass bowl of chopped donated fruits, a wooden spoon in each hand to toss everything together.  "Doesn't this look good?" she asked the class at large.  We all nodded as she continued to toss it.

"But I wish we had some color in here," she said, looking at the pretty bland bowl of innocent fruits.  "If only we had some apples."  I felt her eyes on me and looked down, properly six or seven-year-old ashamed.  "I'm just kidding, Georgette," she reassured me, still mixing.

I never ate any when she handed out portions on paper plates.  But in retrospect, that was pretty low of her to say.  And on Easter of all days.