Some Sundays.

On some Sundays, you just want to wake up at five forty-one, run around the city amongst refreshing morning air, harvest bountiful fruit, saute frittata with temple Royal mushrooms, carrots, cucumber, and jalapeno peppers in saffron oil, bake peach compote with red wine, clean the kitchen of its remnants from the festive evening before, and nestle comfortably in the best seat in the house with a novel you've waited the past one hundred and twenty hours to dive into - all by the time the first person indolently ambles downstairs, dazed at your heightened alertness at nine thirty.

To be honest with you, I'd rather do this on all Sundays.