I Think You Call It Brunch


Was this song playing? I don’t recall. But this is what it felt like on that hot day, sitting on the steps of my first apartment building with the cool breeze making my loose hair into an abstract sculpture as I drank my hard earned beer after cooking a good part of the morning.

This was a while ago. As in when I was in college ago. August 198…oh, never mind.

Eileen, one of my roommates that summer, came back from her parents’ farm one Sunday with the first of their potatoes and a good portion of a recently dispatched cow.  Somehow, gratitude for the abundance her mom and dad had gifted her with, and in turn us, spun into plans for lunch, dinner, brunch, something for the following weekend. 

Well there were at least three of the four of us who shared that apartment. And Emilie’s boyfriend John. And Charlie and Dave, two of my friends who lived down the street that summer, and one of their roommates, and a few others whom I can’t remember. They may have had a whiff of what we were cooking and wandered in off the street for all I know. 

But we had fun, and Emilie’s pancakes, and Eileen’s roast and potatoes, and my zucchini frittata, and some cookies my dad had sent earlier that week, and beer courtesy of Dave, Charlie, and whomever had shown up with them. 

Very good, very cold beer. 

After the first round of cleaning up, I sat on the front steps with my second bottle of the nectar of the gods. And I inhaled the good clean air coming off of Lake Superior, hoping that somehow, that afternoon would never end. 

It did. At least in that segment of the time-space continuum, it did. 

But all that I have to do is click that link, and I’m back on the steps, peacefully communing with nature and friends, and wondering where the beer put my feet.



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