When we lived in Pittsburgh, and I was a resident director and Graduate student, and Andrew the founder of two businesses, we looked forward with such anticipation to the rare Saturday at home, unburdened by travel or commitment or mandatory school events.
Every other day of the week was scheduled, precise, a rhythm of wake up, breakfast, work, class, work, sleep, rinse repeat, sometimes seeing each other long enough to catch up, sometimes forgetting that we were more than roommates who lived on our own rotating schedules of the clock. But Saturdays, Saturdays were a peaceful, separate bliss that looked entirely different from the rest of the week. Saturdays at home meant sleeping in until the late morning sun streamed through our side window, drinking our tea on the porch, lacing up sneakers and walking through tree lined city neighborhoods to Prantl’s bakery. Saturdays meant the circular conversation of what are you going to get today as we stared at the tiers of baked goods laid out on shelves: croissants, sweet rolls, quiche, apple fritters, the bell ringing as we exited the store with a paper package in hand, the smell of coffee beans roasting at our favorite shop across the street. Saturdays meant lattes and pour overs read by the open windows of Coffee Tree Roasters, perusing through our newspaper, speaking only to point out an interesting article or shove a croissant in the other’s face, saying, no, you have to try this, it’s better than last week. Saturdays were and still are a sacred space, an unhurried quiet morning that would sustain us for the rest of the week.