Weekend breakfast

There’s a small kind of quiet that settles over a table on a long weekend morning. Not silence, exactly—more like the low hum of being unhurried. A glass of iced coffee sweats in the light. Plates land and the day opens slowly, as if it has nowhere else to be.

This breakfast came with the comforting weight of a skillet: browned sausages, a soft egg, and a scatter of bright things that taste like someone cared enough to keep it simple. Little metal cups of syrup sit nearby like punctuation marks. The knife rests where it always does, ready but unnecessary, because the best weekend meals don’t need much convincing.

I like mornings like this because they’re ordinary in the way old places are ordinary—familiar, quietly generous. You taste the food and the company at the same time. It’s not a celebration exactly, but it feels like one.

Maybe that’s what a reunion looks like when you zoom in: a table, shared plates, and the relief of letting time slow down for a minute. You could call it a three-day weekend, but it feels more like a borrowed pocket of space—enough to breathe, enough to remember what “rested” feels like.