I rolled out of the house to the brunch spot on my way to get a pedicure and go grocery shopping because life is absurdly wonderful, very nearly perfect.

D. had us over for brunch, the best french toast I’ve ever eaten in my life. O. was a bacon fiend and we had to put the plate out of reach. K. kept falling asleep at the table.

I was straight-up dopey after running my first half marathon, the arm-pumping adrenaline of those last hundred yards replaced by exhaustion and a thousand yard stare around, I tried to be good conversation for my pals who came with me, but all I could see in my minds eye was the couch, and a few free hours for data analysis.

I met M. at a restaurant that looked like it ought to be in the country but was in Brooklyn and ordered French toast with bacon and she told me all about Hawaii. Turns out an office building is an office building, but the weekends sure sound nice.

S. fried my eggs hard just like I like them, slid them into a large shallow bowl because all the plates were dirty, dropped in four slices of bacon and two slices of toast, and urged the butter. Cheese toast with really good butter is amazing. He was right.

Then B. called, we were both near campus, and we both had to get to Cobble Hill. What were the chances? So she picked me up in her car and drove me to Cobble Hill and we ate breakfast in a restaurant and gossiped about libraries.

There’s just something great about a family tradition, especially when it’s family you choose that also chooses you.