Written by Shamira James
I want to preface this entire piece by saying I am 21, tickling 22, and am allowed to drink inhumane amounts of the alcohol of my choosing. Now let’s begin.
I hate the end of weekends, especially after a good weekend. You know the kind. The kind where you sleep enough to shake off that test you failed Wednesday, where you get to do a little retail therapy and you end every night going to a party or bar of your choice. Waking up on that Sunday morning knowing that the scaries are just around the corner and that hangover you have will stick with you all day until you take a three hour steaming hot shower. There’s only one beacon of light on this seemingly worst day ever – SUNDAY MORNING BRUNCH.
Since I’ve turned 21, hungover Sunday morning brunch has always been one of my favorite traditions here at RC. You and your pals try to not think about how much Natty Light you consumed last night. You moan and groan as the walk to Commons seems longer than you remember while whatever weather condition it is has suddenly become the most annoying and inconveniencing one to ever exist, but then it changes. You see what’s on the menu and your spirits are lifted. It’s chow time. Unlike my last columns, I won’t tell you what I hate at brunch, mainly because the more I say it, the more it pops up (I’m looking at you General’s Chicken). As I write this, my mouth is watering thinking about my ~perfect~ meal.
Bacon is a must. Meat is a hangover’s enemy, the Shamira to General’s Chicken, if you will. Not only is the it a top contender for the ways dear old Roanoke has served me well, but it’s unlimited, which is dangerous for my skinnty levels, but great for my happiness – BRING ON DA PORK.
Wing dings make my heart sing. Wings are truly the answer to every problem you could ever have. On a Sunday, when I can barely crack my eyes open because the crust is sealing them shut, these are the end-all be-all of happiness.
MYO Waffles are a blessing in buttery and syrupy goodness and should be treasured as such (except for that pumpkin spice mess, she’s gotta go). Everyone at the waffle station is so nice! It’s not like the laundry room, where people move or just steal your stuff – although that would create some good internet content. We are peaceful waffle people.
LITERALLY ANY FORM OF POTATO! Hell, it could even be potato salad and I’d still be grateful. You gotta be careful though – potatoes turn that “yeah I’m going to the library after this!” to “THIS NAP IS ABOUT TO BE THICC AND LOVELY!”
So before you already start thinking about how dreadful and god-awful a Sunday is, just count your lucky stars and the wonderful Commons workers who save our souls with that bountiful feast.
