Each morning, I have coffee with Creme Brulee, often from the same white mug. It's always the same cup of coffee, but somehow on Sunday mornings, coffee seems different.
The day stretches out ahead of me. I feel optimistic about all I can accomplish, in that "eyes are bigger than my stomach" sort of way. My expectations are unrealistic, but that's OK. It's Sunday morning.
The newspaper spreads out all over the table and falls on the floor. I may not pick it up until after church. And that's OK on a Sunday morning.
The weekly puzzle is played on NPR. I listen intently to the clues and try to play along, usually without success. But every Sunday, I try again.
The house is quiet. Routines are different. The teenage daughter sleeps a little later. The kitties find a sunny place and squeeze in an early nap. This is Sunday morning, after all.
Nearly every day, I pour coffee into my white ceramic mug. But on Sundays, my mind wanders to the bustle of the Intervale Farm Pancake House in Henniker, New Hampshire. I can smell the waffles and the apple pancakes. I can hear the clatter of dishes. I've never been to the Intervale Farm Pancake House, but on Sunday mornings, I imagine I'm there.
And for a brief, delicious time on Sunday morning, everything is alright with the world.