A brisk winter air blows through the window as I open Mark Twain’s “The Prince and The Pauper.” Sunday sun warms our curtains. I lie on the couch with the open pages facing the window to catch its light. This, I think, is today’s intention: Sundays are for reading.

Twain’s vocabulary stirs my own. I remember that word. This one is new. Let me take a note to look it up later. Then I’ll use it in two or three sentences to truly appreciate its meanings, tenses, and contextual elements. Ah, I think, there are few things more pleasurable than this.

A savory breakfast sizzles on a skillet in the kitchen. Pork belly this morning. Fresh bell peppers. Is that vanilla extract I smell? Has someone concocted French toast as well? Do not be distracted, I think. Sundays are for reading!

It is too much. I am overcome. Mark’s pauper can wait. Morning’s are for eating.