On these early Sunday mornings, I disentangle myself from Eli's warm body, slip out from under our quilt and down comforter, and step out into the main room of our apartment. I know to look for it, the distinctive morning glow that washes over the wood floor and antique table by the windows. Yet our home bathed in that cinnamony, 7am light never fails to stop me in my tracks. We live across the street from an old hotel, built in 1927. It may be more than a few degrees below freezing, but the building's bricks appear rosy and warm in the early morning light. Mornings like these call for a cup of Earl Grey tea and the New York Times. I help myself to both and curl up on the sofa. Mornings like these also call for a savory breakfast.
By the time Eli makes his way out of the bedroom, breakfast is served. Roasted potatoes and beets and a sprinkling of rosemary. Eggs with caramelized onions, spinach, and wild mushrooms. (Mushrooms, sizzled in butter until brown and crispy around the edges are, we decide at the table, veritable super heroes.)
It feels like an occasion, and in some small, pajama clad, bed headed, pre-crossword puzzled way, it is. It's Sunday breakfast.