brekkie

The Man and I have odd schedules. Especially this season, with one of us gallivanting around the Netherlands playing shows. So when we have a run of evenings spent apart, we do brekkie.

Brekkie means clearing the kitchen table of yesterday’s mess, lighting a candle, and sitting down to half an hour of proper us-time. We’ve got the division of labor down to a tango — I fry the eggs, the Man grinds coffee for an aeropress or French press, and we dance around each other grabbing silverware and plates, the Marmite and the cheese. Then we slide into our seats behind the scratched pink table and grin bleary-eyed at each other over this small feast.

In other news, I’ve begun a holistic nutrition degree where I’m learning (surprise, surprise) that beauty literally feeds us – our bodies digest food much better when the eating experience is thoughtful, unhurried, and aesthetically pleasing. With food intolerance, allergies, and other digestive problems exploding, I wonder how much could be solved by simply rebooting our relationship with food, banning meals on the fly and in front of the TV?

Or at least starting the day with a little brekkie.

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