Where does the first taste of morning go?
After a four course, two glasses of wine, lost track of the bread basket kind of dinner, I wake up the next morning stunned that I am still hungry. The first taste of morning goes right to my grumbling stomach. From laying on my pillow to consuming food, it takes me about 15 minutes.
In Italy, I would get dressed in the morning while I hard boiled some eggs, crack them on my white countertop that was impossible to clean, and then run out the door with the eggs in a paper towel, munching them as I scurried down an impossibly narrow one-way cobblestone street where an elementary school was located to catch the bus to Pollenzo. The first taste of morning took me to the bus stop.
I am most drawn to tangy and bitter flavors, but I've been on a smoothie bender for a while. My blender is begging for a break. Nowadays, the first taste of morning takes me on my yellow and black bike (AKA bumble bee) on indefinite loan from a friend, through the quiet streets of Healdsburg, to my workplace.
On a leisurely weekend morning (where are those, anyways?), the first taste of morning takes me to a frothy, generous cappuccino and an impeccable pastry, perhaps a scone, and perhaps accompanied by a friend who is eager to rehash the events of the night prior.
The first taste of Wednesday mornings, though, are sun salutations at the yoga studio a few blocks away, sometimes just me and the instructor, sometimes with a crew of fellow early risers, stretching out the kinks before walking into the sunshine and facing the day.