To the concept of brunch:
First of all, well played. Forefront in the hearts and minds of hipsters lined around the block, you have become a staple. And for good reason. You don't discriminate, strictly asserting what belongs on your plates. You are the only place dense, wine-soaked Italian desserts peacefully coexist next to platters of meat and cheese, next to “You know, that one egg and sausage thing?” Chicken and waffles with a side of whatever-the-hell-that-is, or a grilled cheese sandwich with a poached egg and bacon. And you’re not all harsh and hissing consonants like breakfast. You fill my mouth so pleasantly with that deep vowel, evoking images of comfort the second you leave my lips. Spinach dip, pastries, hashbrown casserole, goat cheese and fig crackers. Plates passed from hand to hand, a gathering of friends who might otherwise be suffering quiet and lonesome hangovers.
Speaking of hangovers. Thank you for starting at a reasonable time. I know you’ve seen it. The groggy not-quite-hungover-maybe-still-drunk stumbling, the being scooped up and deposited safely at a corner booth, you bunch of fucking goobers. Or maybe a house where you keep the screen door shut and admire the flowers. Or a house where you don’t look the dog in the eyes and the carpet swallows your bare feet up to the ankles, practically.
Time for some real talk, brunch. If you didn’t intend to last for 12 hours why did you partner up with champagne? I mean mimosas. I mean just a splash of orange juice. For color. You make it so easy to get lost in the pop and sparkle, everything fuzzy around the edges like bubbles rushing to the surface, like the cheekblush of one-or-six too many. But hey. We’ve all got our dragons to slay, sometimes twice, and it’s so much nicer with a drink in hand. A plate of Not Apples passed between friends and one of these nectarines... is not like the other. She prefers the crunch while I stick to the sweet. A muddled crush of berries muddying the stemware.
What if we didn’t have thumbs? What if I could drink lying down and not drown? What if we could be Real People living our Real Lives all the time and not think twice about what anyone else might think? Congruent realities. A drunken grocery store careening. A man shows me pictures of his weed plants like a proud father. Rattles off THC content and expected yields the way a parent might recite GPAs or sports stats. A girl searches for a word and I empty out the dictionary behind my teeth. Hours dissolve into the hold-this-feeling-hostage. A trickle of conversation into sedate quiet. The realization that no morning is infinite, but we can still go back for seconds and thirds.
Brunch. For every morning you’ve saved my life, you’ve probably tried to kill me twice, but I can’t seem to hold a grudge. You make the pursuit of happiness seem so much simpler, time becoming sticky even as it gathers speed. The memories we might not remember in the morning, and I guess all of this is to say thank you. Thank you for the sustenance. For food and friends. For I saw the sign, and it opened up my eyes. Sometimes love is a recliner chair and my fingers tangling astrology, spinning starscripts from the internet interface. Sometimes love is a chicken salad sandwich. Or a movie I’ve seen too many times but you humor me anyways.
But also, poached eggs on everything. Am I right? -b
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