Friday, July 17, 2009


I made Sunday Breakfast on Thursday. The link sausages surrender under the squeeze of my fork, the maple rising up, having it’s way with me. Divine, and simple, I haven’t had these in months. The kitchen is in. The fire is up on two burners now, eggs crackle and snap on browning butter, sour dough toast to sop running yolk. Sitting at my new kitchen island, eating all of this, the cruise ship my morning view. All the passengers, I imagine de-embarking. Home from a glorious cruise to who knows where. Going back to their jobs, setting their alarms. But I’m having Sunday Breakfast on a Thursday, living large, being all laid off.

It’s been months, and it never gets old. I can’t do this forever, but I get it while the going's good. 2 hour walks, meandering to The Promenade, enjoying the late cool of the afternoon. Taking joy lessons from my dog, Rosie – idiot grinning the whole way – pulling me towards pretty girls and strong handsome men.

Cold streams travel down my arm from my glass, joy rivers my throat – pink lemonade on ice, vodka greedily taking up the space to rim. It’s Thursday evening, from the high point of my terrace; the sun is pink and being pulled somewhere else. A roast chicken is in the oven – chicken broth fattens basmati rice, greens soon to yield to olive oil, lemon, and mustard. Maybe I will fire up the ice cream maker. Stay up late.

It’s Thursday night, and I’m unemployed. Time to celebrate.


  1. You make being all laid off with sausage sound quite magical and joyful and inspirational!

  2. Thanks, Vinny. :)
    Never know what's on the menu these days, I'm all anticipation....

  3. Damn,now I'm hungry! I miss those feasts on your terrace.


  4. We take reservations, but for you - no need to call ahead.....