Tomorrow, the shit hits the fan. And I'm really scared for it. You see, my family is coming to town for the weekend - yes, the entire weekend. But, it's not their visit that frightens me; rather it's that they are coming on Easter. As the first Gentile ("Goy" as you like) to run this magazine in the past decade or two, I am aware that some of you readers may be unfamiliar with this holiday. Indeed, this may be the first mention of it in this 3" x 4" space in the entire history of our little publication. So, brace yourselves. In reminiscing about this holiday, I recollect all my fond memories associated with it -- the chocolate bunnies, Sunday dinner at my grandmother's house, and the annual Easter egg hunt at the club. Then I am confronted with a jarring memory associated with this day of rebirth and fluffy newborn chickens -- the matching outfits. Sometime in mid-February, my mother would begin the process of selecting our Easter outfits. We would all be dragged around to countless children's clothing stores so that my mother could assemble some sort of family palette of matching colors. Unavoidably, this "palette" would always be centered around a pastel color, in effect making us all look like oversized Easter eggs. It was never enough for me and my brother's outfits to match, instead the entire family had to be coordinated. Out of all the Easters, one stands out in my mind strongly. My mother used to run this children's clothing line out of our house once a year ("Just Ducky") and part of the deal was that she got a certain number of clothes free. As my brother and I wouldn't be caught dead in any of the garb, naturally my sister, Kathryn, got to enjoy all the spoils. One of the outfits my mother selected was a special Easter outfit for her. All I remember is that it centered around some sort of poofy, smocked dress. The best part of the whole ensemble was that it was topped off with a red hat. To say the least, my sister looked ridiculous. Somehow, she endured the entire process even in spite of all the nasty comments my brother and I made. However, her situation improved once we arrived at church. There we encountered a young girl dressed all in white with a matching bonnet. I guess her mother never quite got over a childhood fascination with Little House on the Prairie or maybe she was just out to punish her daughter. But as we left church that Easter Sunday, my dad turned to my sister and remarked, "Well Kathryn, it could have been worst. At least your mother didn't make you wear a bonnet." So as my parents pull into Penn tomorrow evening, I'll be on the sidewalk mouthing a little prayer: "Please Mom, just please don't make us wear matching outfits to church this Sunday"