Sunday is my favorite day of the week.
It’s become my day.
Generally speaking, all of my hard work is accomplished by end of day Saturday. The grocery shopping, the laundry, the cleaning, the sorting, the tidying, the endless “to-do” list. On Saturdays, I am a work horse. I get up; I survey the day, and tackle what’s ahead. Saturdays, I am a warrior.
Sunday arrives and ah that’s a different story altogether. I get up, but I take my time. I sip my coffee while reading the paper, browsing news sites or just sitting quietly in the early morning sunshine. Sundays mean no particular place to be and plenty of time to get there. When we do attend church, I prefer to go Saturday evenings so I can hog Sunday all to myself. Yes, I’m that greedy with my Sundays.
Unlike harried weekday meals, on Sundays I can take my time cooking. I play my music and flitter in and out of the kitchen. On Sunday, the house sparkles with Saturday’s efforts and I like to fill it with the aromas of my childhood: tender roasts simmering in their own juices, sautéed vegetables, crunchy salads and home-made bread. Sometimes there’s even a freshly baked treat for my loves: oatmeal/butterscotch cookies or my game day brownies. I emulate the women I admire most by preparing fresh, hearty, soul-filling food and plenty of it. When I cook, I pay tribute to my mom, my Aunt Irene and my Grandma F. – the three greatest cooks I know.
Sunday is my day to slow down, get creative and reconnect. It’s a beautiful day.