Wigglesworth Street, Boston
B. would go out for The Boston Globe, The National Enquirer, and the New York Times and often bring back bagels, lox and cream cheese as well. Other times he would make breakfast, after his paper run and we could smell the bacon and coffee coming up through the heating grates. No rush, a chance to read and chat or even fall back asleep.
François Lehman
I lived alone and I would sit at my kitchen window and look at the château across the street as I ate a leisurely breakfast drink tea with fresh mint or hot chocolate while reading a book.
Or there were the Sunday mornings where my Syrian neighbor and I would pad down the hall, often still in our PJs, and have a breakfast made by our Indian friends.
And there was that one extra, extra special Sunday, their daughter came in with her friend. They were about eight. I had taken breakfast and book back to bed that day. She wanted to show her friend my prism, and told her how my grandmother would line up the prism to turn my oatmeal into a rainbow. The three of us shot each other with rainbows using the prism.
Rick does Sunday breakfasts. We may eat in the kitchen or out on the patio. Slow and relaxed, time to read and talk even if we still have writing to do.
Last Sunday
J. and I were visiting a friend of 25 years, her husband and multi-lingual, well-mannered, creative, intelligent almost six-year old daughter. (photo at the top is out their kitchen window). They live in Schwyz, one of the three original cantons, the seed of the world's second oldest existing democracy in 1291.
Sundays are sacrosanct for them, too. A good breakfast, a chance to read and relax. What a spread they put out. And of course the boiled eggs needed a cover, according to their daughter, whom I suspect is powered by the Energizer Bunny.
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