Right now, I am starving, so I am feeling an extreme need to write about food. Like buckwheat pancakes with blueberry syrup, or eggs over easy with a strip of applewood-smoked bacon, or grits with brown sugar, or cheesy grits with brown sugar, or a sprout, avocado, tomato and cream cheese smothered poppyseed bagel.
Plus, I promised my friend Kelsey that I would write an Ode to Brunch. (Except that I won’t really write an “ode” exactly because writing in form currently seems tedious).
Brunch is the best meal of the day because it is the symbol of not working and it includes all breakfast foods, in addition to mimosas, which is extremely important because mimosas are like the grown-up version of sprite in your OJ.
(Apparently, there was a time in the contemplation of my existence when my parents considered naming me some combination of first and middle names that would have led to the use of the nickname OJ. It was pre-Simpson. My dad really likes orange juice.)
The point here is that at brunch, you aren’t limited to just coffee or just water, but are instead encouraged to have coffee with excessive cream, water, and orange juice/mimosa/both. Brunch is the celebration of four beverages and of vegetables cooked in strange combinations, like green beans in almonds or carrots in ginger or broccoli in garlic. It is the meal of too-much, designed for extravagance and sleeping in and a post-indulgence nap, which is actually just another indulgence. It’s all the endorphins of running, except without the sweating part. Sometimes it is outside in the sun.
Oh and how could I forget? Quiche. There is quiche at brunch.
My imaginary door to brunch
