It’s nice to feel like you’ve accomplished something important — if only to you — on an otherwise lazy Sunday. Some people cook a big brunch for their family, like my father always used to do for us when we were kids. I used to do the same, but it’s no fun when one of us isn’t a big breakfast fan. Who doesn’t like eggs? Ok … Almost everyone I know, really. But I’m letting myself get a bit sidetracked.
Now that the intoxicating smell of fresh coffee and pancakes drowned in butter and maple syrup isn’t there to get me up out of bed on the weekends anymore, James and I are working on creating our own weekend rituals to coax us out of the warm cave within our covers. A weekly bike ride has become our Sunday morning date, of sorts, because — let’s face it — we need the exercise, and a little sense of danger in the form of car traffic rushing past you at 40 miles an hour is a great way to wake yourself up. At first, we’d just take a leisurely ride up to the top of East Rock, about a mile from home, but lately, we’ve gotten a little bit adventurous.