Zachary A. Martz

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.

My favorite = Biddle Brunch

There are meals that feel like they’re doing more than feeding you. They slow the day down. They make the table feel like a small, steady place in the middle of the city.

This one landed exactly like that: a marble tabletop crowded with a little cast-iron pan of baked eggs and greens, toast on the side, coffee poured dark and simple, and two stemmed drinks catching the light. Even the water looks deliberate—cold, clear, beaded with condensation—like the room itself is taking a slow breath.

I like brunch best when it isn’t trying too hard. When it’s warm and ordinary in the right ways, and the details feel lived-in: forks set down between sentences, glasses nudged closer, the quiet agreement that there’s nowhere else we need to be for a while.

Biddle has that kind of ease. It’s a gentle sort of indulgence—food that arrives sturdy and pretty, and a mood that makes you want to linger just a few minutes longer than you planned.

If you’re looking for a Williamsburg brunch that feels both celebratory and calm, this is the one I keep coming back to.

ZAMartz Best of 2019

| #top9of2019 #marriage #japan #boyfriendswhobestof

| Wow, What a GREAT year. This has been a year of mainly high points; ZAMartz best of 2019, information to recap.

I will be covering some of the best content and page views on the ZAMartz website as well as the best social media post of 2019 on instagram.

The most important events of this year boil down to 3 items.

Angel and I are Married now and Dyson kicked off the ceremony
We had an amazing month in Japan
My parents finally sold their house and are down-sizing

Top 10 ZAMartz Pageviews of 2019

WordPress Extension Details

6190 Total downloads of two extensions (solid increase from last year)
Overall Rating 3.5 out of 5 stars (launching some new updates in 2020)

The Goodest Doggo

Dyson has turned 2 this year and has his own Top9of2019 take a look @dysoncyclone we love him to bits!!

Compare to 2018

Pleas follow this link to compare to the 2018 review
https://zamartz.com/2018/12/31/zamartz-best-2018/

Friday Night New Husbands Date

Friday Night New Husbands Date felt less like an event and more like a temperature change. The week finally unclenched. We followed the glow into a big room where the ceiling curves overhead and the curtains gather in heavy folds, like something theatrical holding its breath.

Onstage, the screens flashed bright and familiar, and the crowd settled into that shared hush—strangers stitched together by the promise that we’d laugh at the same moment. The light was warm enough to make everything feel a little softer: faces in silhouette, a few blue chairs waiting, sound rigging hanging like quiet punctuation.

Being newly married is a strange kind of ordinary magic. You start noticing small things because they’re suddenly yours to notice: how he leans when he’s listening, how you both look up at the same time, how a simple night out turns into a memory you’ll carry like a ticket stub in a coat pocket.

We didn’t need anything extravagant—just a reason to leave the house, sit close, and let the night make a little weather around us. A date doesn’t have to prove a love is real. Sometimes it just gives it room to echo.

Mini Honeymoon Cocktails

Two small glasses sit on a white table, the kind you cradle with warm hands while night presses against the airport windows. Outside, a plane rests under floodlights; inside, the room glows magenta and hushed, like a waiting place trying to be gentle.

Mini Honeymoon Cocktails isn’t really about mixology. It’s about the pause you make in transit—before the next gate, before the next city, before the world asks you to be practical again. The first sip tastes like sweetness cut with something sharp, like realizing you’re married and it still hasn’t fully landed.

There’s a particular tenderness to celebrating in an airport. Everything is designed for leaving, but you can still build a small island of staying: two seats, two glasses, and the soft roar of other lives rolling by on wheels.

If you’re planning your own mini honeymoon moment, keep it easy. Order one drink you both actually enjoy, ask for water alongside it, and let the clink be the ceremony. No grand backdrop required. Just the shared look that says: we’re here, we’re together, we’re going.

Small drinks for a big beginning.

Countdown – 1 day – AtoZ

There’s something quietly electric about the last day of a countdown. Not loud, not frantic—just a small hum under everything, like a house settling at night.

On the table: two low glasses with “LOVE IS LOVE” catching the light, clear and simple as a promise. Behind them, sunflowers lean in, bright and a little oversized, like they’re trying to witness the moment too. And there, spread open like a breath, a sunflower-patterned fan with names written across it—Angel, Zachary—dated for a day that’s almost here.

It’s the kind of scene that feels ordinary until you look again. A tabletop, a few objects, a room with books and afternoon light. But in the midst of the mundane, meaning gathers. The fan isn’t just decoration; it’s a marker of a future hour when people will stand, smile, and realize the waiting has turned into arrival.

Countdown – 1 day – AtoZ.

Tomorrow is the day the details stop being details and become memory. The glasses will be lifted, the flowers will droop, the fan will fold closed. And what’s left—what matters—will be that steady warmth: love, spoken plainly, and meant.

Lunch at BG & Start of a Spa Day

There are days that feel like they’re made of small rituals—white tablecloths, quiet silverware, the slow pause before the first bite. Lunch at BG was that kind of beginning.

The table filled up quickly in the gentle way it always does: water glasses catching the light, a basket of bread that makes you reach without thinking, and plates that arrive looking like they belong to a calmer version of the city. The gnocchi came in a pale, creamy sauce with truffle scattered over the top, earthy and soft, the kind of flavor that lingers while the room keeps moving around you. Across the table, a salad brought in something darker and crisp, a counterpoint that made everything feel balanced.

After lunch, the day shifted—still the same streets, still the same noise outside, but the plan was different. A spa day always feels like stepping into another world that sits right beside the one you’re used to. You trade hurry for warmth, tension for quiet, and you start paying attention to the simple things again: breathing, stillness, the feeling of time stretching out instead of snapping forward.

It wasn’t a dramatic day. It didn’t need to be. It was just Lunch at BG & Start of a Spa Day—one gentle moment leaning into the next.

Beautiful Nursery Sunday

The nursery is loud in the quiet way—bright signs pointing you toward terra pots, lettuce, and microgreens, and rows of flowers spilling over their tables as if they can’t help themselves. Under a clear blue sky, everything looks a little more vivid than it should: greens sharpen into layers, petals catch the light, and the greenhouse stands back like a steady presence, holding its own warmth.

I like places like this on a Sunday. They feel settled. Not staged, not rushed. Just alive alongside you. The kind of stop that turns into a slow walk, then an even slower decision: basil or rosemary, something blooming now or something that needs patience. You drift from color to color, reading the small tags, brushing a leaf between your fingers, trying to remember where the sun lands in your own yard.

There’s a comfort in choosing something that will keep growing after you leave. A small act of care you can carry home—dirt under your nails, a pot balanced in your arms, the promise of watering it when the week starts to crowd in.

Beautiful Nursery Sunday, in the simplest sense: blue sky, plant aisles, and that steady feeling that life is still making itself new.

Puppy Pool Party

There’s a particular kind of summer moment that doesn’t ask for much. A patch of sun on the deck. The wood warm underfoot. A small blue pool holding a thin, honest layer of water—barely enough to make ripples, but enough to change the day.

Puppy Pool Party is the name, and it fits in the simplest way. Not a crowd, not noise, not anything staged. Just a puppy standing in a fish-print kiddie pool, looking up with that steady gaze that feels like a question: is this all there is? And if it is—can we stay here a while?

The pool turns the ordinary into something a little brighter. The water catches the light. The painted fish float under the surface like a tiny summer world. The puppy’s paws make soft circles that travel outward, then disappear at the edge, like so many things do.

I like how animals don’t overthink joy. They step into it. They test it. They decide, in a moment, whether it’s worth trusting. And when it is, they settle in—not with grand declarations, but with presence.

Maybe that’s the whole party: a small body of water, a warm day, and the quiet permission to be exactly where you are.

Smoked Salmon of my Dreams

There are meals that arrive like a memory you didn’t know you kept—quiet, unassuming, and then suddenly you’re paying attention to everything.

Smoked Salmon of my Dreams wasn’t fussy. It was simple and sunlit: a thick, glossy piece of smoked salmon on a green tray, a lemon wedge waiting at the edge, a wide onion slice, a tomato cut open like a small red window. Two scoops of salad—cool and pale—sat beside it, the kind of sides that look modest until you taste how they carry the whole plate.

Across the table, condensation slid down tall water glasses, catching the light. Hot sauce stood by like a dare, but the salmon didn’t need much. It had that steady, smoky richness that feels settled—like something made the same way for a long time, because it works.

The best part might have been how communal it all felt: trays lined up, hands mid-conversation, forks resting on napkins, the tabletop reflecting everything back. Food like this doesn’t perform. It just shows up and makes the moment bigger.

If you’ve ever wanted a lunch that tastes like summer slowing down—salty, bright, and a little smoky—this is it.

Good Morning Clearwater

The morning in Clearwater arrives softly, as if it doesn’t want to disturb anything. A wide, cloud-brushed sky hangs over the water, and the gulf sits calm and steady, holding that early light the way a quiet room holds breath.

Out on the pier, the red roofs feel like small punctuation marks against the pale horizon. The scene is simple, almost spare, but it’s full of little details that make you slow down: the long stretch of wood over water, the gentle fade from sand to sea, the palms in the foreground framing it all like a memory you can step back into.

Good Morning Clearwater is the kind of greeting that doesn’t need much else. It’s a reminder that some places know how to start the day without asking you to hurry. You can imagine the first footsteps on the boards, the distant calls, the mild salt in the air. Even the light feels patient.

It’s a good morning not because it’s perfect, but because it’s present. The water doesn’t perform. The sky doesn’t insist. Everything just is, and that’s enough.

If you’re planning a beach wedding or just craving a quieter kind of Florida morning, this is the mood to remember: calm, clean, and unforced—like the day is giving you space to become yourself again.

Just a little cabana time

There’s a particular kind of quiet that shows up when you finally stop moving. Legs stretched out, sand bright enough to make you squint, and those blue cabanas standing like small, sturdy rooms against the open beach. The ocean keeps its steady line in the distance, and everything else feels like it can wait.

I like how simple it is: shade when you want it, sun when you don’t mind it, and the slow choreography of people coming and going near the water. Clearwater Beach has that wide, washed look—white sand, pale sky, and a horizon that makes your thoughts feel less crowded.

It reminds me that places have their own kind of living, the way a house creaks and settles. A beach does it too, just in softer ways: wind moving through umbrellas, waves folding and unfolding, footprints appearing and disappearing like they were never meant to last.

Cabana time is never really about doing nothing. It’s about noticing the small things that are usually drowned out—salt on your skin, the weight of warm air, the patience of the tide. For a little while, the day becomes as uncomplicated as looking up, listening, and letting the world pass by at its own speed.

Author: Zachary A. Martz