Absinth-lutely a good Sunday

Sunday has a way of arriving quietly, like the last light slipping across the kitchen floor—soft, unhurried, and asking very little of you.

Today it arrived in two glasses set down on a pale counter: one drink the color of late afternoon, the other a deeper shade, like dusk gathering itself. Behind them, the tools of the small ritual—stirrers, glassware, a bottle waiting its turn—stand like familiar furniture. Nothing dramatic, just the gentle order of things that have been used before and will be used again.

“Absinth-lutely a good Sunday” makes it sound playful, but there’s something steadier underneath. Absinthe always carries a little myth with it, even when it’s simply part of a well-made cocktail. The first sip can feel like opening a window in a room you thought you knew: herbal, sharp, then suddenly rounded by sweetness and chill.

I like moments like this because they’re ordinary in the best way. A small pause. A brief ceremony. A reminder that the week doesn’t have to start with a sprint; it can start with a slow exhale, the clink of glass, and the mild comfort of something carefully made.

If you’re taking Sunday as it comes, take it with intention—measure, stir, taste, and let the afternoon keep its shape a little longer.