A bottomless cup of coffee, sinfully crisp bacon, and butter soaked toast. All elements of the one thing I hold sacred. I believe in Sunday brunch.
As a child, Sunday brunch was about a reward. It signaled the end of church. A devout Catholic, my mother demanded we attend mass. At age eight, the hour long mass seemed to last an eternity. But somehow, it was worth it. After all, it was always followed by a long brunch, where I surely tried to secure the spot next to my dad among my sea of siblings.
In college, Sunday brunch was about freedom. No topic was off limits. We were young and we were on our own. Unbeknownst to me at the time, my typical college town was a utopia of liberal ideals. My strict upbringing had prevented me from exploring taboo topics, like sex and drugs. But things were different in college. I spoke my mind; I let my true self-come out. It was at Tony’s, the gritty restaurant down our street, where my roommates and I took up the same booth every Sunday. We evaluated our weekend conquests, complained about midterms, and cured our hangovers. It was were we daydreamed about what life would bring.
After college, Sunday brunch was about making decisions. It was where I complained about my difficult boss. It was where my boyfriend and I broke up. Somehow, the comfort of my parents and the fun, carefree times Sunday brunch had represented had started to fall apart. It became just another eating occasion, where life didn’t stop, where reality set it. And somehow, sinking my teeth into moist French toast had lost its entire luster.
I can’t say I can clearly define when I realized Sunday brunch was really about embracing all that life brings. Maybe when I turned 30. Sure, there are some down times and some high times. But Sunday brunch is where I’m guaranteed time to digest and reflect. It is time with friends, with family and sometimes, time with a good book. And last Sunday, it was where my fiancé and I met to plan our life together.
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