Our Sunday morning ritual—disrupted for months by Covid—has, thankfully, again become routine.
Here’s how it goes. At about 8 am, I leave our home for a neighborhood walk. Less inclined toward early morning perambulation, Joe fires up the Keurig for a cuppa and waits for the New York Times to be delivered.
When it arrives, and he’s out the door, he texts me, and I make a beeline for Marco’s, our favorite café in the urban village a few blocks from home. Since he’s driving and I’m often a mile away, he has time to linger over the front section of the newspaper before I arrive to claim it.
Marco’s pandemic-born street patio is hopefully here to stay. We’ve dined there in rain and shine, on frigid days next to a heater and in steamy temps. The wait staff knows to bring coffee and water and give us time with the Times.
No menus are required. Our order rarely varies. A waffle for Joe, fresh fruit and yogurt for me (dumped on top of a quarter of Joe’s waffle that always migrates to my plate), side of bacon to share. Extra syrup arrives without asking.
When I occasionally wonder whether we might be more adventurous in our morning meal selection, Joe balks. “Marco’s makes the best waffles anywhere,” he claims. “Why mess with a good thing?” He has a point.
Yesterday, a bevy of bees decided to join us for breakfast. I waved them off between bites, but one little guy would not be deterred. He landed on the edge of my plate and managed to dip his wing in yogurt.
I was horrified. “How will it fly?” I asked Joe. “Be patient,” he said, nose in the news.
I watched as the bee bounced off my plate and wobbled across the table like a drunk. It perched at the edge, clearly unable to lift off. I lost my appetite, feeling responsible for the insect’s probable demise.
But then nature took its course. In a flurry of movement over a minute or so, the yogurt seemed to dissolve. The bee flapped its wings as if to test them, barely elevating above the table, then descending again.
At last, our little striped friend flew off, no apparent harm done.
I returned to my breakfast, which now looked like an insect death trap. Chewing on a piece of strawberry, I decided it was time to change my standing order to something less dangerous. Scrambled eggs, perhaps.