Breakfast of Questionable Champions [Wreath]
The morning after the holiday chaos it feels like the whole apartment forgot how to breathe,
air heavy with the smell of stale cinnamon, cheap wine, and the ghost of that relative who wouldn’t shut up about crypto while chewing too loud over the mashed potatoes,
the string lights still glowing in loose loops on the wall like they stayed up too late scrolling too,
and my body is shaped exactly like the couch I passed out on, complete with creases and crumbs and one glitter flake that migrated from somebody’s sweater to my collarbone.
The clock on the microwave blinks nonsense where the time should live,
leftover evidence of that brief power flicker when half the neighborhood screamed in unison, thinking the turkey had finally staged its revenge from beyond the grave,
now it just flashes 12:00 like a dare,
and my reflection in the dark TV screen looks like a raccoon who lost the trash fight but won the right to keep the eyeliner.
My stomach growls in full surround sound,
a low disgruntled rumble that has opinions about last night’s “let’s mix eggnog with everything” experiment,
and in that holy moment of quiet, the fridge starts calling my name louder than any group text ever has,
a humming, buzzing promise of salvation in aluminum foil and plastic wrap.
Bare feet slap the sticky floor,
my brain still wearing last night’s arguments and flirting attempts like wrinkled clothes,
and I open the fridge door like it’s some sacred portal,
bathed immediately in that cold fluorescent confession booth glow that forgives nothing and reveals every science experiment in Tupperware.
There, on the second shelf, between the pickles no one touched and the one deviled egg that refuses to admit the party’s over,
sits the pie.
Half gone, a little crooked on its tin like it barely survived the dessert table stampede,
crust cracked, filling sunk in the middle,
whipped cream long dead except for one stubborn streak clinging to the edge like a snowbank that refuses to melt in April.
“Breakfast,” I announce to no one, voice rough, eyes still crusted in glitter and regret,
and there’s this split second where the ghost of my childhood responsible self pops up in the back of my head like,“You know there’s oatmeal in the cupboard,”but she never paid taxes or had her heart snapped in front of a refrigerator door,
so I grab a fork and commit pastry-based sin.
First bite is cold, too sweet, and absolutely perfect,
the kind of wrong that feels righteous in the ruins of a long night,
crust hard enough to make my teeth complain, filling still rich with spices and sugar and all the things the doctor told me not to eat before noon,
and I stand there in front of the open fridge, letting the condensation creep along my skin while the year rewinds in quiet snapshots behind my eyes.
I remember who baked this thing,
hands flour-dusted, hair pulled up, humming off-key to some old song in the kitchen while I pretended to help by taste-testing everything,
their hip bumping mine when I reached for the bowl, that easy intimacy you only get when someone has seen you cry into dishwater and still hands you the good towel,
we joked about leftovers then like they were a small reward for surviving the main event,
never said out loud how often the leftovers end up being the only part that makes sense.
The second bite hits different,
it tastes like a late-night apology,
like the quiet part of the party when everyone has either gone home or passed out and the last two people standing talk real for the first time all month over paper plates and lukewarm coffee,
where you confess that the holidays feel more like auditions for a part you never wanted,
trying to look festive enough, grateful enough, healed enough, successful enough to be allowed another plate.
Crumbs decorate the counter like tiny trophies as I keep going,
leaning hip-first into the cabinet, one hand gripping the edge of the tin,
kitchen floor cold under my feet,
my phone buzzing somewhere in the living room with morning-after messages and photos I’m not ready to dissect yet,
all those captioned moments where everything looks happier, fuller, brighter,
not a single shot of the sink, overflowing with dishes and everyone’s undone feelings.
Fork scrape, pause, fork scrape, pause,
breath lining up with the rhythm of this strange quiet feast,
and somewhere around the third or fourth bite, the sharp edge of last night starts to dull down,
that half-fight with myself in the bathroom mirror about being behind in life,
that flash of jealousy at someone else’s matching pajamas and stable traditions,
that little sting when I realized I didn’t actually belong to any one table this year,
just floated between rooms like a borrowed ornament hung wherever there was space.
In this cheap, chipped-tin communion, something soft pushes back.
Maybe it’s the sugar syphoning leftover sadness,
maybe it’s the way the cinnamon still smells like being ten and thinking second-day dessert was the greatest act of rebellion allowed by law,
maybe it’s just the carbs finally hitting my bloodstream like a gentle riot,
but my shoulders drop, jaw unclenches, and for a few bites, I am not late to anything.
Leftover pie breakfast is messy grace,
fork marks scoring the filling like half-finished constellations,
a little crust crumbling to the floor,
the slice not plated, not dressed up, not presentable for social media,
just eaten right out of the pan,
no one watching, no one judging,
just me and this crooked, imperfect blessing that somehow survived the storm.
I think about all the resolutions waiting in the next room like unpaid parking tickets,
the planner with its fresh pages,
the lists I promised I’d make,
the habits I swore I’d break,
and for once I let them all wait,
quietly granting myself this tiny detour between last year’s wreckage and next year’s ambition,
a layover where my only job is to chew slowly and admit that staying alive through another holiday circus is worth celebrating too.
When the last bite disappears and the guilt tries to shuffle forward in its sensible shoes,
I pour myself coffee strong enough to argue with the devil,
raise the chipped mug in the direction of the empty tin like we just closed some kind of strange, holy deal,
and mumble, “You were good. We were good. That counts,”before setting the fork in the sink with the rest of the honest disasters.
Some people run marathons to reclaim their lives,
some people sign up for gym memberships and juice cleanses and soul bootcamps,
I stand in a kitchen with morning hair and yesterday’s shirt,
still half asleep and fully human,
letting leftover pie for breakfast be my quiet little rebellion against every rule that ever tried to dictate when joy is allowed to be eaten.