Someone on TV mentioned “brunch” and my husband and I started reminiscing about the last time we went to brunch, a million years ago when we were newly engaged. His parents were visiting from Chicago and treated us to Sunday brunch at Salty’s on Alki. It was fabulous.
“The best part was the mimosas,” I said, remembering the illicit thrill of being tipsy at 10 in the morning in a fancy restaurant with my future in-laws.
“We were young,” I went on, “childless . . . thinner. Ah, our brunch days.”
“Like our salad days, only tastier,” my husband said. “Our salad days, with eggs. And bacon.”