{ On Sundays our home smells like bacon. }

We roll out of bed, tousled and sleepy-eyed, as morning gives way to noontime, bodies sated with good sleep and stomachs growling for nourishment. We practice our kitchen dance, the intricate back-and-forth, give-and-take of Mike managing the bacon and eggs, me making the pancakes in our narrow galley kitchen. Sometimes instead of pancakes we'll have hashbrowns; this week it was waffles. We sing along with Pandora and Mike makes me giggle with his moves. We eat till we feel ill, which I fear is gluttony, but I haven't talked to The Father about it yet. We just can't help ourselves, it's always so good! Then the mandatory nap on the sofa, till it's time to get ready for church.

And when we return from church, evening shadows lengthening {though we finished "breakfast" a mere eight hours previous}, Mike opens the door and PHEW! Bacon. Bacon in the air, bacon in the sunlight, bacon practically dripping from the atmosphere. Mike smiles contentedly. I run to light candles and open windows. This, my friends, is what our Sundays smell like.