I woke up this morning to make breakfast for my visiting parents, and realized the refrigerator was out of eggs. Dad came along to the Gorge White House to pick a few up from their nearby chickens. While there, we walked through a field of flowers and gathered some for the table. The whole bouquet was $2.50. My parents keep threatening that they will soon be in the Pacific Northwest, as neighbors. I wanted to explain why that is not advisable, but flashbacks of old Sunday mornings stumbling down 5 flights of stairs (because the elevator was stuck in the basement), waiting for the light at the corner to finally turn green, running across before it turned red, and then getting in line to pay for eggs transported from some other state took all my mental energy.
This area reminds me of when I stayed in a town full of vineyards in Italy. So, I bring to you an Italian "Sunday Morning". The English version first made it to my ears through a Lenaya Lynch mixed tape.