Sunday morning means staying in bed as long as possible with the New York Times, a pot of strong Assam tea and warmed-up whole milk precariously balanced on the night table. This is after sleeping in as long as possible, which for me is usually something like 7AM. It’s important not to hurry and let the morning just unfold. No rushing into plans and errands and constructing the day in 15 minute increments. That’s what the other six are for.Sometimes I don’t even get to much of the paper, as Sunday mornings are also a good day for reflection and tangental thinking and dreaming of the odd and impractical. Often some inspiration or craving emerges from this and I wander into the kitchen, figuring out breakfast. (All-time favorite: take a thick piece of crusty bread and cut out a hole in the middle. Heat some butter in a frying pan over medium heat. Place the bread and the circle that you cut out in the pan and fry gently until it just starts to brown. Throw another little dot of butter into the bread hole and crack an egg into it. Sprinkle on S & P and cover. Cook for a few minutes over lowered heat, then carefully flip the bread/egg and the little circle and cook the other side, uncovered, for another few minutes. Serve on a plate. Inspiration for this came from a scene in Moonstruck where Cher is making breakfast for Nicholas Cage. Only, her version contains red peppers. I think.)
Sometimes also there’s a Sunday morning sound track, usually a shuffle of the ‘Sh-h-h-h-h-h-h’ playlist. M. Ward or Devendra Banhart, Bach or some of that reverb-y blues from the 60’s. Later, things will emerge: friends to visit, a movie to see. Maybe a meander though the Mission looking for used cast iron pans at Thrifty Town or a new little plant for my window from the taxidermy store.
But never, ever any housework. Well, maybe the breakfast dishes.