There’s something about a weekend morning that demands a special breakfast. After waking up to sunshine, lazing around in bed, whiling away hours reading and talking and staring out your windows at the brightening sky, when at last you stretch your legs onto the wood floors, the only sensible thing to do is continue the indulgence by feeding whatever your morning craving may be: Pancakes? Quiche? Cinnamon rolls? Fresh-squeezed juice? Banana bread French toast?
Tim and I took advantage of this pure luxury last Saturday, on one of those rare wide-open days where we had no plans or obligations until dinnertime and thus full freedom to pursue anything we chose. I’d made sourdough banana bread the night before, so in the middle of the afternoon in our pajamas, we dipped slices in a French toast batter and sauteed them in coconut oil on the stove. Tim reduced blueberries and maple syrup in a separate pot; then, we took our plates to the table, spooning thick blueberries onto fat slices of the sweetest, most delicious breakfast I’ve had this year.