On Sunday I find myself sitting outside at the patio table with a mug of English Breakfast tea, doctored with a liberal amount of oat milk and Savannah Bee Company honey. The air is humid and pregnant with the promise of a thunderstorm—the word that comes to mind is languid. Every so often, a few drops of rain sprinkle the surface of the table and I duck inside before realizing it’s a false alarm.
I used to love reading the “Sunday Routine” column in the New York Times, in which they’d profile a prominent city citizen about their Sunday habits. I do realize that I am neither prominent nor a city citizen any longer, and you didn’t actually request to hear the details of my Sunday, but here we are, so let’s hope you’re a curious and captive audience!
Around 7 AM, after feeding the baby, I took my paddle board out and fought the wind for a bit. A few fishing boats motored past me, moving slowly until they hit the “no wake” buoy and gunned it for the open water. I saw one other boarder and a cluster of fishermen, standing on the rocky jetty far off in the distance, their poles propped up beside them, coolers at the ready for their daily catch.
After jumping in the water, which is particularly warm this time of year, I took a quick shower, dried my (very short) hair, and threw on ripped jean shorts and a very soft white Madewell t-shirt. I threaded thin gold loops through each ear, and slipped my feet into my worn Birkenstocks.
I made a smoothie—cherry, fig, cauliflower, raspberry, blueberry, and cashew milk—and my first of many (okay, four) cups of tea.
Grocery shopping is not a part of my routine yet but nonetheless, dinner must be cooked one way or another. There’s a farm about 20 minutes away with excellent meat—they raise all of their own animals (sheep, pigs, and cows) on 28 acres of pasture—and there’s a food truck out back with (distanced) picnic tables. Two friends meet us there with their dog, a boisterous standard poodle, and we carry sandwiches out to a table on the grass, sidestepping the chickens wandering about hoping for scraps. To our left is the garden with long rows of bushy basil plants and spiky stands of rosemary, and to our right is a fenced field where a group of baby goats are running about.
The menu here is short and sweet: a smoked BBQ brisket sandwich with horseradish aioli and Gruyere on toasted caraway bread; a pulled chicken salad sandwich with crispy chicken skin and fennel slaw on a brioche bun; homemade falafel on a soft wrap with pickled cabbage and cilantro and tahini sauce. There’s tart lemonade and cold brew with milk and a very good chocolate chip cookie.
Inside we pick up a few pounds of their homemade sausage for the week, along with zucchini and a loaf of banana bread that’s so moist, its stickiness seeps right through the parchment paper wrapping.
At home, I unpack the groceries and level a baleful glance at the pile of clean laundry before deciding to pretend I didn’t see it.
I put on water to boil for pasta, salting it generously. While I wait, I throw the ingredients for a chia pudding into the blender: coconut milk, strawberries, Greek yogurt, date syrup, chia seeds, and a pinch of salt. A quick whirl and it’s ready to be portioned out into small glass jars to chill and set.
I cut up two grilled chicken breasts I had saved in the fridge and toss them into a large saute pan with a glug of oil, letting them brown quickly. I add the pasta—cooked a few minutes shy of doneness—and a big scoop of the pasta cooking water. After giving it a stir, I add a cup and a half of pesto and a pint of cherry tomatoes. A few minutes on the flame, then I pull it off the heat and let it cool before piling it into a serving bowl to rest in the fridge for dinner.
I sit down and think about all the things I could do: fold the aforementioned laundry, organize my spice cabinet, take a walk, download more music onto my Apple Watch, pump up my bike tires, read a chapter of my book.
Reader, I do none of these things. I contemplate each of them in turn. I contemplate making more cookies for the week. I contemplate how it feels to simply sit in contemplation. I carry on this way for more time than is really appropriate considering the length of my to-do list.
I feel more tired than I ought to, considering last night’s excellent and deep sleep. Yesterday I spent all day in the sun at a friend’s pool, and a few hours driving in both directions to get there (the trip is a mere 15 miles in length, but requires boarding two small ferries and zig-zagging across an island which sits smack-dab in the way.) The combination of a slight sunburn (can I say tan?) and hours in a hot car took more out of me than I realized and the idea of being showered, in clean pajamas, and sitting down to dinner later this evening and a episode of Top Chef is already so pleasurable it almost hurts.
I wander out to the garden to see if any greens are ready (yes, arugula) or tomatoes (not quite yet). I attempt some “light editing” of my closet (a generous term for the multiple piles of clothing haphazardly thrown on shelves above my hamper), when I hear a murmuring, then a cooing from the nursery.
I scoop him up before he realizes he’s alone, and the cooing turns to a startled wail, and press my face against the soft skin on the side of his neck, inhaling the sweet milky smell of him.
We lie on the bed for another 45 minutes, his body pressed heavily against my chest as his breathing steadies and quickens in tune with the depth of his sleep. I write as he naps.
When the day begins to wind down, making its slow turn into evening, I ride my bike 4 miles to a tiny beach that overlooks a lighthouse far in the distance on a small island outcropping. The way back is tougher than the way out as a strong headwind pushes against my bike. I pass the farm stand, a winery, and a Greek diner where families are playing corn hole on the lawn as the adults sip beers and some lethally strong-looking cocktails.
A shower. Lotion and face scrub and nighttime serum (this and this and this) while I listen to a snippet of my audiobook (Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld). The chicken pesto pasta reheating in a skillet on the stove, smelling salty and savory and deeply of basil. A drift of Parmesan grated over top. A pinking sunset above the trees outside. Dinner and its attendant sounds: forks clinking, the baby babbling, Padma’s voice announcing the rice arancini in the quickfire challenge was far too spice-forward. Darkening skies and plates plunged into soapy water, then stacked neatly in the dishwasher. A pint of mint chip ice cream and a single spoon. A nibble of homemade sesame cracker, cold from the freezer (trust me on this), as I wipe down the kitchen counters.
Bed. Clean sheets and satiny-soft cotton pillowcases and the New York Times Spelling Bee puzzle. Ordinary, extraordinary days.
Strawberry Chia Pudding
Makes 2 large or 4 small servings
1 pint strawberries, hulled and sliced in half
1 cup (285g) Greek yogurt
1/2 can (200ml) full-fat coconut milk
3 tablespoons (63g) date syrup (or maple syrup or honey)
pinch of salt
1/3 cup chia seeds
Add all the ingredients to a blender and pulse a few times until smooth. Divide among bowls or glass jars and chill for at least 4 hours to let the pudding set.