Recently my wife Abby and I have gotten ourselves into a happy little rut: I make French toast for her on Sunday mornings.
It’s not always pretty. I’m not a visually skilled chef like my brother-in-law Tracey, who can make French toast fit for a magazine ad. I also make ugly but delicious vegetable omelettes, which I make for myself on these Sundays.
This Sunday was no exception, and may have been even better because there was so much in our meals that came from the garden: for my omelette there was red onion, bell pepper, and a tomato. As our side dish, we both had cantaloupe, for which I have waited all summer.
Much of the time, these Sundays have plans that are shelved in favor of tv movies or Chihuahua-covered naps, but the chores get done later, and our Sunday ends up being a place of quiet intimacy.