Several months ago I did a post (it’s here, in case you’re just dying to read it) bemoaning the unavailability of the Sunday New York Times here in our neck of the woods. Not, you understand, that I expected to find copies of the Sunday New York Times piled up at the convenience stores in Madoc and Tweed so that I could pick one up of a Sunday morning once Raymond and I moved here; I was fully prepared for the unavailability situation. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
Because really, is there anything better to do after church on Sunday than to cook up a late breakfast of bacon or sausages and eggs, with some nice toast spread with Stirling butter and some good tomatoes sliced or quartered on the side, and to sit down to that fine breakfast with a copy of the Sunday Times to read? (Okay, well, if you happen to have one of Katherine’s Famous Bloody Marys to sip, you’re that much better off.)
Why, there are so many sections in the Sunday Times that you can divide it up between the two of you (or more, if there happen to be more in your household) and still no one will lack for reading material during that leisurely breakfast, and probably well after it and into the middle of Sunday afternoon. (By which time, if you’re lucky, you will have been served another of Katherine’s Famous Bloody Marys. If anyone would like the recipe, just say the word and this wonderful Sunday tradition can be yours too! Oh, and after that second one, you’ll be wanting a Sunday nap.)
The Times was for years part of the Sunday tradition for Raymond and me when we lived in Montreal. We enjoyed what I now realize was the extreme luxury of having it delivered to our door. And so we’d come home from church and there it would be, a doorstopper of a great big thick newspaper, just waiting for me to divide it into two separate piles (the News, Sports and Sunday Review sections for Raymond; the Sunday Styles, Arts and Leisure and Travel sections for me; and we always found a way to share the Books section and the magazine) while Raymond whipped up Ray’s Famous Scrambled Eggs. (The best scrambled eggs ever, and maybe, if you ask nicely, I can get him to share that recipe.)
The Times is still, in my opinion, the best newspaper in the world. (Though of course the Guardian is excellent too.) And while I spend a lot of of the news-consumption time of my waking life “consuming” (okay, reading) news on my mobile phone, there are circumstances in which I still love an old-fashioned ink-on-paper newspaper. I love, for instance, the local weekly papers that I read cover to cover because they tell me all kinds of interesting things that are happening right around me here in Queensborough. And I love the ink-on-paper Sunday New York Times. Which I have not as yet been successful at bringing into the Manse on Sundays, as I vowed in that earlier post I would try to do; I’ve been a little too busy to spend much time on that mission.
But a week ago today, Raymond and I began our Sunday in another big city, Toronto, and so we were able to pick up a copy of the Sunday Times before returning home to the Manse. The photo you see at the top of this post shows our same-day copy of the paper along with a Katherine’s Famous; here is one showing Sunday breakfast the way it should be: bacon and eggs (fried instead of Ray’s Famous Scrambled on this particular Sunday), Katherine’s Famous Bloody Marys, and the Times spread all over the dining-room table. All of it just waiting for us to attack it in the course of a long and very pleasant Sunday afternoon. At the conclusion of which we’d be well-fed and would have read all kinds of interesting things written by some of the best journalists in the world:
For two journalists, that really is the way Sundays should be. Which means it’s time for me to get serious about getting the Sunday New York Times within buying range of us here in the Madoc-Tweed-Queensborough area. Because I think that everybody deserves such Sundays!