“I didn’t want to get to the newsroom too early,” my husband said when he joined me at the café.
I was sitting by the window with a hot Americano. He sat at the next table with a decaf iced Americano and a piece of bread.
“I need to finish today’s post,” I told him.
So he quietly opened his book at the table beside mine.
The day before, he had spent part of Sunday there, reading under the air conditioner.
“It’s quiet, so I can focus on reading,” he had said.
A little later, I stood up to go home. He wanted to stay a little longer before going to work, so I left first and came home.
“I just finished my course registration,” my daughter said.
“Nice. How was it? Was it stressful?”
“The waiting was the hardest part,” she said with a smile.
Just then, my son walked out of his room.
“What are you making?”
“Spicy beef soup. It’ll take about an hour,” I said. “It’s so hot outside, but somehow I want something warm.”
Last night, I had already ordered everything I needed to make it. I had thought my husband might have lunch at home today.
I took the beef out of the refrigerator and put it into the pot. I was about to add some sesame oil and turn on the gas stove.
At that moment, my son and daughter came over and looked at what I was doing.
I paused.
“Beef soup takes time. I think I’ll make it later. Let’s just make a quick braised tofu instead.”
My son smiled.
“You noticed.”
Then he went back to his room.
My daughter asked,
“Can I have Buldak noodles?”
“If you want.”
She went to the convenience store.
The Morning Kept Moving
I opened the fresh food box that had arrived that morning and looked for the tofu.
It wasn’t there.
The delivery app said everything had arrived, so I requested a refund for the tofu.
Then I took the beef out again.
When I walked back to the sink, I found the tofu under the ice pack.
I laughed, canceled the refund, and made the braised tofu.
Five minutes later,
lunch—
or maybe breakfast—
was ready.
I took a little rice, some natto, a small serving of tofu, and a little cucumber salad from the refrigerator.
“Finish the rest,” I said.
My son heated a bowl of rice, picked up the frying pan with the tofu, and disappeared into his room.
My daughter came back with her noodles.
“Is this lunch?” she asked.
“I think it’s breakfast. Or maybe lunch.”
We laughed.
I didn’t need to keep the morning on track.
It was already finding its own way.
Later, I made a cup of green tea and sat down with my laptop.
Soft jazz was playing.
The fans were humming.
A few minutes later, my daughter sat across from me with her tablet. She put on her earphones and quietly practiced Japanese.
She’s studying, I thought.
Then I finished this post.
The soup never really began.
I followed the morning instead.
Nothing went wrong.
Everyone simply found their own rhythm.
So did I.
