It’s Friday. The sun is out. The dogwood is blooming in the front yard. There is literally not one single cloud in my sky. We all alive for now? Marvelous.
It’s been a wild ride, these last few, on my no-expense-paid trip through all five Kubler-Ross stages. I don’t think settling down at Acceptance is a realistic option when the landscape is constantly shifting beneath us, but I am going to take a breather today, and cook actual breakfast, with actual bacon, and put some real mental energy into my mother’s morning challenge, “Where were your favorite breakfasts?” (an 18th century inn in Lewes, East Sussex when I was twelve, a café on Cours Mirabeau in Aix-en-Provence in 2016, a teeny hotel in Munich when I was 24, the first time I ever went to Café Du Monde as a young teenager, this four hour brunch that happened at a Walter’s in Fort Greene on a very cold day that seemed to transition seamlessly into oysters in Manhattan and back to Brooklyn for an unexpected hip hop dance party that went on until, like, breakfast the next day, a labyrinthine bed and breakfast in Edinburgh where they did this thing with salmon and eggs and dilled crème fraiche, every single time, every single year on a family beach vacation at Isle of Palms, when we have biscuits and Mom’s sausage gravy and what feels like bushels of warm roadside ripe peaches and tomatoes). Feel free to jump in with your own. I could go forever.
Thanks for putting up with me, friends.
Photo today is the view from breakfast on Cours Mirabeau. As of this writing, 219,019 people have recovered from COVID-19.