Sunday brunch

When I was in college, my friends and I would get together for Sunday brunch. The best was always at my graduate school fried Emily's house (she's the one who went to Chez Panisse with us). She had the most light-filled apartment, with comfy couches and chairs and hardwood floors. The gas stove was perfect for her percolator, in which we brewed cup after cup of the thickest coffee we could stand. She always splurged on a New York Times ($5 on Sundays, which, combined with the most recent New Yorker on the couchside stack, provided more information than you could digest in a week). We kept the morning vibe going as long as we could, until homework or work or other obligation crept up on us.

We're just finishing Sunday brunch with our friends Tasha and Camille, the perfect kind of Sunday brunch friends. They are gracious hosts, especially when it comes to Julian. They don't care that he eats all their blackberries and wants to paint on their floor. They are happy to spend the time together, not out eating a fancy buffet or at a park or babysitting while Ian and I do something.

Just hanging out.