It was a little past eleven in the morning by the time this meal was ready.  This time three years ago, I’d still have the pillow over my eyes to block out whatever sunlight made it past the shutters.  And then my mom would march into my room again, rollers in, pleading me not to be late for 11:30 mass again.

At 9:30 am this morning, I promptly sprang out of bed, brushed my teeth, and began my new Sunday morning ritual.

By no means do I consider myself a reliable hand in the kitchen.  If you had the patience to watch me chop vegetables in the most unnecessary of symmetrical and uniform divisions, you’d understand to never ask me to help you to whip anything together in a pinch.  This is why I’m so glad Laura has the talent to sleep in well past noon if left to her own schedule.  It gives me the chance to figure out the morning menu, skip over to our building’s grocery, and decide the uniform cuts on my own, while Sleeping Beauty takes advantage of a mattress to herself.

At some points during prepping our meal, I play it in my head like some covert operation: to do my best to cook quickly and quietly enough before she gets up on her own.  That’s what makes Sunday brunch worth it.  Because when I put carefully place the unbroken yolk, less burnt spam and more symmetrical veggies on her plate, open the door to the bedroom, and waft the aroma towards her, she begins to stir and stretch.  And then she yelps that kind of good yawn to resurrect herself, and she finally opens her eyes at 11:30 to see her hubby with brunch in hand.  And she coos “Thanks, babe.”

Because this is what I do on Sunday, and this is what I’ll do next Sunday.