Sundays are sacred. From the moment I open my eyes until I drift off to dream, every action is selfish. My mantra is What will make me happy today? My response is what I do. Carefully crafting butternut squash ravioli from scratch, I mix the dry ingredients for the dough separately from the wet, then gently meld them together—like clay in the hands of a sculptor. The dough is cold beneath my palms as I knead it smooth, then roll it flat like a pancake. Next comes slicing it into neat squares, setting the stage for the filling: sweet, roasted butternut squash blended with freshly grated nutmeg, caramelized shallots, garlic, and crispy sage, pulsed into a silky, fragrant mixture. Each square is filled, sealed, and cooked to perfection, then bathed in a warm brown butter and sage sauce. Finally, I eat them slowly, one bite at a time, savoring the sweet, earthy taste of fall—every second present in the action at hand.
Drinking delicate, fruity tea out of my fancy antique tea cups while reading the romantic words from Rumi. Slowly grinding some marijuana and licking the edges of the paper just enough so they stick together, forming a smokable joint. With each inhale, I take in my worries, the smoke fills my lungs, and I exhale my insecurities away. Allowing me to write about the moments of discomfort and hurt, my naive self experiences. Then listening to music that transports me to a time when I am free. While sipping on dry, juicy red wine, lying in my soft hammock, swaying with the cool salt air of the night surrounding me. All this while gazing up at the glowing stars of the night sky, full of wishes and endless possibilities to come. These Sundays are sublime.