Zachary A. Martz

Weekend Veggie Takeout

Weekend Veggie Takeout has a way of making the day feel wider, even when the hours don’t change. You set the bag on the table and suddenly there’s a small scene: playful print on the paper, a wrapped veggie burger with greens showing at the edge, a warm bowl of something hearty, and a lid that reads like a private joke.

Takeout is its own ritual. The crinkle of paper, the little fog of heat when you open a container, the pause before the first bite while you decide what to start with. It’s food, yes, but it’s also permission to stop managing the evening.

I like that this kind of meal feels practical and soft at the same time. Vegetables dressed up as comfort. A burger that doesn’t ask you to compromise on satisfaction. Something hot and savory that tastes like it was meant to be eaten slowly.

The weekend doesn’t need a big plan to feel real. Sometimes it’s enough to bring home a simple spread, clear a space on the table, and let the ordinary be generous for once.

Breakfast with Bae

Breakfast with Bae has a certain small-morning quiet to it—the kind you don’t notice until you’re sitting across from someone you like, watching the day begin without rushing it.

On the table: thick toast painted with avocado, cool cucumber coins laid on top, a scatter of red pepper that looks almost accidental. A croissant waits off to the side, buttery and patient. An iced coffee sweats into its plastic cup, and a simple glass of water catches the light like a pause.

It’s not a grand meal. That’s the point. The ordinary things—bread, coffee, a shared table—carry more weight when you stop long enough to feel them. The fork and knife cross the plate like a quick signature: we were here, we ate, we talked about nothing and everything.

I like breakfasts like this because they don’t demand a performance. They just let the morning be what it is: a little tired, a little sweet, and quietly hopeful. If you’re lucky, you leave with full hands and a steadier mind, stepping back into the day like it’s something you can handle.

Happy Pride from our Family to Yours

Some days arrive like a familiar coat you pull on without thinking—soft, worn-in, and somehow new again. Pride feels a little like that in our house: not a single day on the calendar, but a season of remembering what we’ve built, who we love, and how we keep choosing each other.

This photo catches that mood perfectly: our dog, calm and watchful, wrapped in a rainbow bandana like a small flag of belonging. The colors are bright, but the feeling is quiet—steady eyes, a settled posture, the kind of presence that says, “I’m here.” It’s a simple image, but it holds a lot.

Family isn’t only the big moments. It’s the everyday rituals: the familiar creak of the floor, the way light lands on the couch, the sound of tags jingling when someone gets up to follow you into the next room. Love lives in those ordinary corners, and it grows there.

So from our family to yours: Happy Pride. If your home is loud or peaceful, crowded or still, if you’re celebrating openly or finding your way in private—may you feel safe, seen, and held. May you find your people. May you keep making a life that fits.

Salmon is Crispy

Some meals arrive like a small weather change—sunlight on the table, a cold drink sweating beside the plate, and a quiet moment that asks you to slow down.

“Salmon is Crispy” doesn’t try to be poetic, but it tells the truth. The fillet sits centered and golden, its skin seared to that crackling edge you can hear before you taste it. Underneath, a dark bed of rice holds everything in place, grounding the dish the way an old house holds warmth in winter.

Around it: scattered vegetables, little bursts of green, pale florets with char at the edges, and thin radish slices like commas in a sentence. A few dots of sauce and a glossy drizzle pull your eyes across the plate, inviting you to notice the details instead of rushing to the next bite.

I like food like this—simple, careful, and confident. Not crowded. Not loud. Just balanced. Crisp and soft in the same mouthful, bright and smoky in the same breath.

If you’ve been craving something that feels both clean and comforting, this is it: a diner moment that tastes a little bigger than the room it’s served in, and lingers longer than you expect.

Cold Beer and a Cheeseburger

There’s a certain kind of quiet that shows up at a bar table—somewhere between the first cold sip and the moment you realize you’ve stopped checking your phone.

This was one of those meals that didn’t ask to be complicated. A cheeseburger on a glossy bun, warm enough to sink under your fingers. Fries standing upright in their little metal cup, like they’re trying to look more disciplined than they are. And a beer in a heavy mug, pale and clear, with condensation gathering at the edges like proof you’re exactly where you meant to be.

The photo could be titled Cheeseburger and Cold Beer, but the real title is the feeling: letting the day loosen its grip. The knife stuck into the burger is a little dramatic, but it makes a point—this is serious comfort.

“Cold Beer and a Cheeseburger” sounds like a simple order, but it’s also a small ritual. A reminder that not everything needs to be optimized. Some things just need to be hot, salty, and served with something cold enough to slow you down.

If you need a reset that doesn’t involve a screen or a plan, this is a good place to start. One plate. One mug. A little space to breathe.

The Spa is Mine

The Spa is Mine.

It’s a small claim, but it feels true in that quiet way—when the water is glassy, the sky is a clean, wide blue, and the whole yard looks like it’s holding its breath. The pool sits there like a bright square of calm, bordered by sun-warmed concrete and a strip of green that looks too orderly to be accidental.

From this chair, with my legs stretched out and a book open in my lap, the day becomes simple. There’s no rush to get in, no need to prove anything. Just the soft sound of water shifting against tile, and the steady light that makes everything look a little newer than it is.

I like how places can feel lived alongside you. Not loud, not demanding—just present. A backyard can be a kind of home for your thoughts, the way an old house can hold seasons in its walls. Out here, summer doesn’t announce itself; it settles in.

Maybe that’s all “mine” means today: a brief pocket of stillness, claimed without conflict. A moment where nothing is being remodeled, improved, optimized, or explained. Just a body in the sun, a page turning, and water waiting patiently nearby.

Rain Dance for Arizona on Bell Rock Trail

The sky over Sedona looked heavy, the kind of gray that can’t decide if it’s going to give you shade or finally give you rain.

On Bell Rock Trail, the red earth felt wide and open, stretched out like a stage. I stood there with my arms thrown up, half-joking, half-hopeful, doing my best rain dance for Arizona. The rocks held their rust color under the clouds, and the whole desert seemed to pause and listen.

Hiking out here has a way of making you pay attention to small shifts: wind changing direction, a cooler breath of air, the way distant buttes fade when mist drifts through. It’s not the same as a summer storm back home, where rain arrives loud and certain. This was more like a question hanging in the sky.

I don’t know if the dance worked. Maybe it’s enough that it made me stop and look around, to feel how big the landscape is and how quiet you can get inside it. Even when the ground is dry, you can still sense what it’s waiting for.

If you’ve ever walked Bell Rock Trail under a brooding sky, you know the feeling: that the desert isn’t empty at all. It’s just patient.

Wow Arizona you Beautiful Beast

The sky over Sedona looks washed in a soft, stubborn gray, the kind that makes the red rock feel even more alive by contrast. The butte rises out of the scrub like something ancient that decided to stay put, holding its shape while everything around it changes—juniper, dust, the thin road cutting through, the weather moving on.

There’s a quiet power in places like this. You don’t just look at them; you listen. The rock face carries layers like memory—bands and seams and weathered lines that hint at time you can’t really measure. It feels less like a landmark and more like a presence.

I keep thinking about how landscapes become part of you the way a house can: familiar, steady, always there in the background of your life until a certain light (or a certain mood) makes you notice it again. Arizona has that effect—beautiful, blunt, and somehow tender at the edges.

Wow Arizona you Beautiful Beast. Even under clouds, even when the colors mute, Sedona still holds that slow, undeniable pull—like the land is reminding you to stand still for a second and let it speak.

Cartoon Desert Landscape

The title says Cartoon Desert Landscape, but the scene feels more like a memory that’s been simplified into clean shapes and quiet color.

A wide, pale sky sits over a low hill, and the desert plants rise up like old markers you learn to navigate by: the tall saguaro with its steady arms, the thin columns in the distance, the scrub and spines scattered across sun-worn ground. There’s nothing frantic here. The space does what it always does—holds its distance, lets the light speak first.

I like landscapes like this because they make you listen. Not with your ears, exactly, but with that small part of you that notices how a place keeps living even when you aren’t paying attention. The desert is full of that kind of patience. Everything looks still until you remember how long it took to become this way.

If you’ve ever stood somewhere dry and open and felt the world get a little bigger around you, you know the feeling this image carries. It’s calm, a little lonely, and strangely comforting—like you could walk forward, over the hill, and let the day unfold without needing to name it.

Travel in Blue on @jetblue

There’s a particular kind of calm that shows up before a flight—when your life is reduced to what you can carry and what you’re willing to leave behind.

This photo catches that moment: a duffel and a backpack resting on blue carpet streaked with thin lines of color, like a quiet map of everywhere people are going. A water bottle is tucked in, ready for the dry air and the long waits. The bags look used, not staged—zippers and straps doing their familiar work, holding together the small necessities we trust more than we admit.

Travel in Blue on @jetblue feels like more than a title. It feels like a mood. Blue is the terminal light before sunrise, the steady patience of standing in line, the soft hum of an airport that never really sleeps. It’s the in-between space where you’re not quite home anymore, and not yet wherever you’re headed.

Some trips are loud with plans, and others are quieter—built from routine: pack, shoulder the weight, move forward. Either way, there’s something honest in these moments on the ground, when all the motion is still ahead of you.

If you’ve flown through JFK with JetBlue, you know the feeling: the crowd, the announcements, the brief privacy of headphones, and then—eventually—the lift.

Day 1 of Vaca at the @andazscottsdale

Day 1 of Vaca at the @andazscottsdale begins the way I like a beginning to feel: slow, light, and a little hushed.

Outside, everything sits in that desert calm that makes you notice details you’d normally skip. The lawn looks too green to be real, held in by clean white walls and low, modern lines. Palms stand up like punctuation marks. A pine tree leans over the path, and even the clouds feel softened, as if the sky is speaking in a lower voice today.

Coffee in the morning does that for me. It doesn’t just wake me up—it gives the day edges. Something warm in your hands while you watch a place you don’t belong to (yet) become familiar. I like that first-day feeling: the quiet inventory of where the doors lead, what the air smells like, how far the walk is from room to courtyard.

There’s a kind of peace that comes from being away, but not rushing. Let the minutes stretch. Let the morning settle. Let the simple scene—green grass, white stucco, tall trees, a muted sky—be enough.

If this is how day one looks, I’m happy to see what the rest of the week sounds like.

Avocado West Coast Toast

A plate can feel like a postcard from the coast: sturdy toast, a cool green smear of avocado, two eggs glowing like small suns. The kind of breakfast that doesn’t announce itself—just sits there, quietly convincing you to stay seated a little longer.

The table is dark wood and morning clutter: water glasses catching the light, a mug of coffee with its soft, milky swirl, and—across the way—waffles dressed up with whipped cream and raspberries. Savory and sweet sharing the same space, like two songs you didn’t expect to like back-to-back.

This is the charm of Avocado West Coast Toast. It’s simple in the way good things are simple: crisp bread, creamy avocado, warm yolk that turns everything into sauce. A pinch of seasoning, a few greens, and you’re done.

If you want to make it at home, toast something with backbone. Mash ripe avocado with salt and a squeeze of lemon. Cook the eggs until the edges set but the centers stay soft. Stack, sit, sip your coffee, and let the day wait outside for a minute.

Image: Avocado Toast with Eggs & Coffee