It is a weirdly crisp spring day, and I am a tad shivery even after a sunny walk home. Dogs barking, I dump the collected mail onto the kitchen counter–the only thing not to be recycled is the New Yorker. I set it aside to join the growing pile on the bedside table, which gets leafed through (sometimes) as a part of a reading narcolepsy practice but mostly has to wait until I am in a forced-to-sit-down-for-long-periods-of-time situation like an airplane flight.
Also on the counter are leftover crepes from the batch I made my son for breakfast before he left for school. I start to clean them up and then realize I want one. More than one, in fact. With cheese. Lots of it. I start to make all sorts of out-of-the-ordinary-for-me choices. I am on my way to making a proper lunch, granted with leftovers (there is an aging fennel salad in the fridge), but a proper lunch. Often there are peanuts out of the jar, a hunk of cheese, a piece of toast with peanut butter or avocado, a handful of Thai spiced almonds from Trader Joe’s (If you haven’t tried these yet, please do). It is grazing through counters, cabinets, the fridge, and the pantry that is delicious and attuned to what I want, but it is on the move.
I am feeling very French–might be the crepes and the cheese–and relatedly, apparently very civilized. There is a plate, a fork, and not so far as a napkin but close. I pick up the plate, which looks delicious, and start to head to my desk to eat while answering emails. My eye gets caught by a sunny spot on the kitchen table; the light and the warmth seem to pat the chair in front of it, saying, “Come sit for a second.” I shift course, picking up the New Yorker on my way, and plunk myself down in the sun spot. Twenty minutes later, I haven’t answered any emails, but I am well-fed on all sorts of levels. If your version of a sun spot invites you to pull up a chair today, I hope you will find a way to say yes, even for just a few minutes.