Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: BRUNCH (02/27/25)
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TITLE: Eggs and Existentialism | Previous Challenge Entry
By C D Swanson
03/04/25 -
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Margaret laughed lightly, her impeccable Sunday hat slightly askew. “Well, Catherine, perhaps you should. Matthew 18:20 says, ‘For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.’ And I’d wager He’d bless us with unlimited mimosas.”
“Unlimited mimosas or not,” Cindy interjected, her tone dry as the toast she hadn’t touched, “I’m fairly certain brunch is no holy sacrament.”
“Oh, Cindy,” Mary chuckled, her eyes twinkling beneath wire-framed glasses. “You’d turn wine into water if you could. Can we just eat in peace?”
“That’s rich,” Catherine snorted. “Mary, the Switzerland of spirituality, taking the moral high ground.”
The three women, all in their seventies, had a camaraderie as crisp as the bacon on their plates, though the edges frayed with playful banter. They had met at a community theater performance thirty years prior and never lost touch, despite varied beliefs, marriages, and a revolving door of hair colors.
“Speaking of the divine,” Bea chimed in, cutting through the chatter with her booming laugh, “have you seen Catherine’s gardener? Now, there’s a masterpiece of nature if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Bea, please,” Catherine fanned herself theatrically. “He’s twenty-five if he’s a day. Besides, my knees wouldn’t survive a tour of the yard.”
Margaret chuckled but couldn’t resist adding, “Proverbs 31:17 says, ‘She sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks.’ Perhaps a little gardening would be good for you, Catherine.”
Cindy rolled her eyes. “I think we’ve officially left brunch and entered the Garden of Eden,” she quipped. “Minus the innocence, of course.”
Mary grinned, her hand idly tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “You know, for a conversation about divine creation, this sure turned to earthly pursuits quickly.”
As their plates emptied and the coffee flowed, the conversation drifted from divine matters to decidedly mundane ones. Catherine detailed her latest antiquing conquest: a slightly chipped porcelain teapot that, according to the dealer, had graced the lips of someone mildly famous.
Bea regaled them with her latest misadventure at the senior center’s cha-cha class, where she’d twisted her ankle while attempting a move she swore was called “the devil’s dip.”
And Mary, the ever-grounded voice of reason, recounted a phone call with her grandson, who’d asked if brunch was “just breakfast that’s late or lunch that’s early.”
“Kids today,” Mary sighed. “They spend more time debating meals than eating them.”
Margaret, ever the optimist, saw this as an opening. “You know, Mary, that’s a bit like faith. You can’t just analyze it—you have to consume it.”
“Here we go,” Cindy groaned, though a smirk tugged at her lips.
The waitress arrived with the check, and as they each reached for their wallets, Catherine hesitated. “Do you ever think,” she began, her voice unusually soft, “that one day, one of us will be missing from this table?”
The air grew still, the clatter of dishes and hum of conversation fading into the background. It was Mary who broke the silence. “Catherine,” she said, her voice as steady as the tide, “if there’s one thing I know, it’s this: we’ll always be a part of this table. Whether in memory or spirit.”
Margaret clasped her hands together, whispering a heartfelt “Amen,” while Cindy sniffed and waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t get sappy. It’s just brunch.”
“Is it, though?” Bea mused; her voice uncharacteristically pensive. “Or is it our way of holding on to each other, to the life we’ve built, one avocado toast at a time?”
The moment passed as quickly as it arrived, replaced by their usual laughter and teasing. They left the restaurant arm in arm, promising to meet again next Sunday.
But here’s the twist: as they departed, a young waitress overheard their parting words and felt a pang of longing. Later that evening, she called her estranged grandmother, rekindling a bond over coffee and an overdue apology.
For all their squabbles and jests, the brunch ladies had unknowingly inspired something profound: the realization that what binds us—be it faith, love, or laughter—is far more enduring than what divides us. And perhaps, just perhaps, their gathering wasn’t so ordinary after all.
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