For the past 20 years, I have loved everything about brunch.
The best brunch is eaten 30-60 minutes after waking up, over or just before the lunch hour, ideally still with bedhead. The grease of bacon and home fries helps settle your stomach (if required), the orange juice makes you feel healthy (either way). You leave rejuvenated, even if only temporarily so (due to a Bloody Mary).
In my 20s, my friends and I would have brunch for hours. A revolving door would see people come in and out, mimosas would be drunk by the pitcher (before sparkling wine was drunk by the bottle), and we'd finish a little before dinnertime, at which point we'd all go out again.
In my 30s, I perfected hosting brunch at my home. I had the menu sorted: a loaf of banana or pumpkin bread to snack on, then a quiche (purchased), an overnight French Toast like this one, and my favourite fruit salad. Sometimes I'd replace the quiche with smoked salmon and bagels (always served with capers, red onions and tomatoes), or easy scrambled eggs with cream cheese and chives. It was a meal I could do it with minimal preparation or hassle.
But as I neared my 40s and my kids hit their preschool years, I started having people over for early weekend dinners instead of brunch. It was more fun, more practical, and a better time to have a glass or two of wine. Then I received a lunch invitation, and it planted a refreshing seed in my head.
Last Saturday, as I sat down to make a shopping list for brunch the next day, I realised I was done with brunch. I was holding onto something whose time had passed. I was tired of eating a second (or third) breakfast when we had already been up for five hours with our kids. I was tired of egg dishes and fruit salads and baked goods. Brunch belonged to someone else.
At 41, I was finally ready for lunch.