Waking up at seven on Sunday is not something I think of doing often, but there I was this morning, measuring, chopping, mixing, for a couple of loaves of banana bread. And whaddya know, it’s not so bad, after all, waking at seven to bake while the sun rises, and to have your house smell delightful for a good few hours.

After a solid month of friends in town, the sudden emptiness was churning in my stomach when Maud arrived with the Sunday Times and a plump brown bag of spicy chai. It was a sign of things to come, because then everyone else showed up to brunch bearing gifts, too. From Kat, a bunch of dahlias deep pink like happiness. From Jeff, two massive chocolate-chip muffins and two massive apple muffins. From India, a silver bracelet of pink hearts. From Jason, The Cow Who Fell in the Canal, which—I’m just flipping through; I haven’t read it in its entirety yet—starts by introducing Hendrika, an unhappy cow living on a farm in Holland, and ends with her munching grass in the pasture with a red hat on her head. I see, also, that there is a two-page spread that pictures a bunch of Dutch dudes piling cheeses into pyramids in the town square. This book can only be good. (I will say, though, that Jason said he’d picked it up from the top of a newspaper box on the way over, and now that I’ve just put it down I realize my hands are beginning to itch.)

Jeff made us Bellinis and Kirs while I put together a sweet potato pasta with fried garlic and shaved parmesan. I looked over from the kitchen at one point to see everyone spread out on the ottoman, on chairs, on the floor, reading the paper. On a list of things that feel good, that scene makes it up there with the things that feel very, very good.

Then we ate, oh, how we ate, and there were stories told, and gossips gossiped, and laughs laughed, and utensils gestured in a way that would make my mother shudder and say, “I never taught you that.” There was a pear ginger crumble and chrysanthemum jasmine tea as the sun set. We danced to Andy Williams singing “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.” We lit a skinny candle and a fat candle.

When it was all quiet again, I deep cleaned the house, and then I deep cleaned me. I go to bed in a cloud of wild pansies, which is what every Sunday ought to smell like.