Sunday mornings are rather slow paced at our place. They usually involve sleeping in until I hear the soft tinkling sound of a teaspoon stirring in a teacup. Regardless of how deep my sleep, believe me, my eyes pop open at that distinctive sound in the upstairs kitchen. This is usually accompanied by the smell of maple bacon. Upstairs, my dad is busy making buttermilk pancakes, fluffy scrambled eggs and the a-fore mentioned maple bacon. My nephew is already seated and waiting at the table. With my mom, the four of us enjoy our weekly “Papa’s Sunday Breakfast”. 
After breakfast (in which my nephew has been known to tuck away 8 pancakes, 4 strips of bacon, 3 scrambles eggs and 2 cups of tea . . .he’s 11 and I think BOTH his legs are hollow), mom and I will make our journey to the living room to sit in the bay window and knit and crochet (she knits, I crochet) or take our mugs of tea and a stack of cookbooks out into the garden. We are accompanied by the sound of my nephew practicing his cello and song birds. “Papa” heads downstairs to his chair and to watch the Sunday game.
The busier the work week, the more I enjoy and appreciate my lazy Sunday mornings.
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