Okay…I had to go there. Alliteration and tounge-twisters must be used whenever the opportunity arises. The past few Sundays I have spent in Seattle have all started out the same way.
Sundays are for sleeping in late. Or at least trying to sleep in late. I always seem to wake up early as if it were a work day. After lying in bed reading for a while, I eventually arise and draw a nice bath. I would like to say nice hot bath, but it is more warm than hot. Either that or I am not as sensitive to the water temperature.
I finish getting ready, then head to Pike Place Market. This isn’t the only time I make my way to the market during the week. Some week nights I stop by on my way home from work and pick up something from one of the stands.
On Sunday mornings, I make my way to Lowell’s restaurant for breakfast. I usually get the Market breakfast. It is simple, and delicious. I choose scrambled eggs and bacon. My toast choices vary between wheat and sourdough. The hashbrown potatoes are a perfect blend of soft and crispy. The toast is buttered and the meal is garnished with an orange wedge.
I understand now why people both butter and spread jam, jelly, or some type of preserve on their toast. I didn’t like the idea at first, but having it at Lowell’s the next day after our Holiday party, it was scrumptious. I refuse to believe that my mind was convinced the toast was that much better because it was a post-alcoholic beverage consumption evening breakfast.
I usually drink ice water with my meal, but when I feel indulgent, I treat myself to a hot chocolate. This hot chocolate was a treat. When I ordered it, I was asked if I wanted whip cream. I said, “Surprise me.” For some reason, I get double-takes when I provide that answer when ordering hot chocolate. It must be that crucial of a decision that I should not leave it to chance.
The outcome every time has been that I get whip cream. I think of it as a win. I didn’t have to make a decision that would wear away at my will power, and I get a nice treat on my hot chocolate.
I tend to be a creature of habit. If I like a certain meal, I will usually order it every time. Some days I am adventurous and try something new. For now, this breakfast just works.
After I finish my food, I start to roam the market. It is usually around 8:30 AM and it is fairly quiet and laid back. Vendors start to prepare their stalls, the produce is making its way onto the stands. The strong smell of fresh seafood permeates the air, and the noise level starts to climb as the amount of foot traffic increases with shoppers and visitors.
I stop to buy some goods and make my way in and out of some of the stores surrounding the market. Soon, I will hear the buskers playing their music to entertain the crowds and garner a few tips.
Every Sunday, one man plays his piano either right in the market or on the corner of 1st and Pike. His fingers fly over the keys and his passion and joy for his music sing out to the crowd. Observers pull out their phones to record his performance as they walk by. Some stop to listen to a song or two while others smile and dance along.
I make it a point to give a small gratuity to the young man for sharing his gift with me. I make my way back to the apartment to unload my purchases and enjoy the rest of the day. Sometimes, the sun peeks out of the clouds and I make my way to the rooftop to bask in its warmth.
Sunday mornings are wonderful. Sadly we eventually move in to the short afternoon, then into the evening where thoughts of work, travel, and our busy lives move the relaxation out and stress back into our lives. The good news is, that another Sunday morning is just seven days away.
Sarah Roonie 