Spooning Read Online Free Page B

now all of the brunchers were paying attention. Funny how whispered screams of help did no good, but if you pointed out a fashion faux pas all New Yorkers snapped to attention.

    M
y morning antics were the topic of conversation at our own late afternoon Sunday brunch. Some call Sunday theSabbath, while others call it a day of rest. It's considered by Christians to be the holiest day of the week. Whatever your religion tells you to observe on Sunday, we here in New York celebrate it a little differently. We gather and congregate at various outdoor cafes and eateries and celebrate the almighty brunch. The service typically begins around noon and can go on for hours, especially if Bloody Marys or Mimosas are involved. While many repent their sins through prayer, we here in the city eat and drink them away.
    Growing up, the biggest day of the week for my family had been Sunday. Sunday was the day the entire family went to church, and better yet, went out to brunch afterward. And for somebody who preached the godliness of refined culinary skills, my mother really lived for Sundays. If this was a day of rest for the one up above, by golly, this was a day of rest for her too. She'd be damned if she would cook, clean, or do anything else on this day. I learned at an early age that Sunday was the day to repent and to stuff our faces, which I guess meant that I was destined to be a New Yorker.
    After what seemed like one hundred Hail Marys and a million amens in church, we would cram into our beat-up, moss green Volvo station wagon and head to our favorite brunch spot. Now while most families go to civilized diner-bistro type deals that serve runny scrambled eggs, greasy bacon, and pulped-out OJ, my family strayed from the norm. We went to an all-you-can-eat, stuff-yourself-till-you-feel-like-you'regonna-vomit type joint. Our slice of heaven was called Don Juan's El Paso Cantina. Yep, we had rice and beans, cheese enchiladas, and beef tacos all before 10:30 A.M. As kids we thought we'd died and gone to pork-out heaven. In that hour and a half, my brother, sister, and I would hit the buffet aboutfifty times and work our little bodies into food comas. You can imagine the fart contests in the car on the way home. My dad would coax the mariachi band over with dollar bills and make countless Julio Iglesias requests. Meanwhile, my mother would sit back in the cozy booth, sip her frozen fruity drink, and smile the entire time. This was her idea of heaven and we loved it too.
    Now, as a certified adult, I didn't just go to brunch, I
did
brunch. Let's hear it for all the brunchers of the world! Could I get an “amen” from the audience? And now after a few weeks, I'd finally mastered the inner workings of the brunch system. Not only did you have to find the ultimate noshing spot, the even trickier part was fitting your entire congregation around one measly little table. But it gets worse. Everyone in your group had to be present, I repeat,
present
in order to get seated. All the New York hostesses just shake their haughty noses at the standard lies:
    “
My friend just ran to the ATM
.”
    “
The one who's not here isn't really going to eat anyway
.”
    “
She just called from the taxi, and she's stuck due to a huge accident in the park on Seventy-ninth Street!
”
    “
She ran across the street for cigarettes … oh, I know she can't smoke inside anymore
…”
    Let's just say that my posse was “brunch challenged.” To get six females out of bed, dressed, and out the door by noon is a tough feat to accomplish, especially when your group is usually hung over and lying in the fetal position in the living room watching reruns of 90210 on the FX channel. If you are just one minute late to an egg white omelet and turkey bacon sermon, your entire service could be delayed by as much as two hours.
    But brunching goes beyond just eating; brunchers chat and chew at the same time, and some actually soak in the atmosphere around them (especially by