Sunday excesses

We crawled out of bed and wiping the sleep from our eyes put the coffee on. I cracked countryside yellow yolked eggs fresh from a Polish aunt to make french toast. The plump slices were sweetened with maple syrup flown all the way from Toronto, which dripped down our chins and stuck our fingers together.

Throughout the morning we snacked on rosy cherries, picked from the tree in the garden just the day before, during breaks from cutting roses and packing them to be sold on the market.

Lunch was steak and chips, a personal favourite; the steak browned on the outside and bright red under the surface. The juices from the meat mingled with the garlicky buttery sauce and gathered in pools around the crispy chips, golden and crunchy saltiness on the outside and soft inside. Token vitamins were provided by the cucumber salad, smothered in a creamy dressing to disguise any healthy properties that may have been present.

Pudding was fresh market rhubarb, cooked in a cobbler, sweetened with sugar and cinammon and surrounded with flaky pastry. The hot rhubarb melted the vanilla icecream; sweet and sour, hot and cold filling our mouths with contrasts.

By evening, we were unable to manage more than a couple of slices of dark bread with slices of cold meat and a couple of overgrown radishes, swallowed down with a swig or two of cold beer straight from the bottle.

I think of Sunday and I think of food.