- To declare positively
--
I must aver that I woke up at an ungodly hour for a sabbath day this morning. I'm a morning person, but even I have to curse at the sun when confronted with the fact that while I traversed desolate streets, hundreds of others were tucked into bed, relishing the Sunday lull.
Bitterness: it happens.
Of course, my wake-up call did have a purpose. A purpose that made complete sense at the time of conception, but when juxtaposed to sweet, sweet slumber seemed rather obtuse. While questioning why in the world I used words like "conception" and "obtuse" at such an hour, I hopped on the highway, free of traffic, and got off three exits down.
It was all for Eggs Benedict.
Velvet hollandaise, with just a enough lemon juice to make your taste buds twinge. Perfectly round poached eggs, with bright yellow yokes. Seared Canadian bacon, with just enough snap to let you know it cares. And then the English muffin, homemade and grilled, not toasted.
This was the gastro-treat that tore me from my bed. This was the petit dejeuner that called to me like a siren. This was what compelled me to get out of the house in time to be at the restaurant at 8:00 a.m. to avoid the infamously long line. And this is the breakfast that is sitting in my stomach as I prepare for a Sunday afternoon nap.
It was worth the effort. But I won't be duplicating said effort next week.
I must aver that I woke up at an ungodly hour for a sabbath day this morning. I'm a morning person, but even I have to curse at the sun when confronted with the fact that while I traversed desolate streets, hundreds of others were tucked into bed, relishing the Sunday lull.
Bitterness: it happens.
Of course, my wake-up call did have a purpose. A purpose that made complete sense at the time of conception, but when juxtaposed to sweet, sweet slumber seemed rather obtuse. While questioning why in the world I used words like "conception" and "obtuse" at such an hour, I hopped on the highway, free of traffic, and got off three exits down.
It was all for Eggs Benedict.
Velvet hollandaise, with just a enough lemon juice to make your taste buds twinge. Perfectly round poached eggs, with bright yellow yokes. Seared Canadian bacon, with just enough snap to let you know it cares. And then the English muffin, homemade and grilled, not toasted.
This was the gastro-treat that tore me from my bed. This was the petit dejeuner that called to me like a siren. This was what compelled me to get out of the house in time to be at the restaurant at 8:00 a.m. to avoid the infamously long line. And this is the breakfast that is sitting in my stomach as I prepare for a Sunday afternoon nap.
It was worth the effort. But I won't be duplicating said effort next week.
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