Morning Glory | San Diego Address

Life is ephemeral.

When it’s simply the four of us, there’s magic. None of us could’ve ever predicted the sweet recipe of tender allegiance back in Amsterdam, all those years ago. Our annual trips have forged into a beautiful tradition, soaked in both laughter and tears. Like morning glory flowers blossoming in violet, epitomizing affection and love.

When it’s the four of us, there’s always rejuvenated hope. Every minute is a reminder to celebrate our differences, shift conversations from gossip to trauma, but laugh until our stomaches break. Like morning glories that close at night, appreciating the present moment with wide open arms is knowing that nightfalls occur. In botany or in life.

 

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Of course, it was only apt that our very first stop in San Diego was perched above Little Italy, coincidentally named: Morning Glory. Although, the thought behind the best brunch spot in the city might have been birthed through a cheekier reference than flowers that signify a fresh start.

After a trip to Saint Tropez several years ago, we decided to name our delightful quartet: FemmesTropez (Chickago didn’t seem to stick after a few days in The Windy City.) At Morning Glory, the menu items appeared to be just as global as our trips have been. From Ginger Fried Rice, Breakfast Carbonara, Chilaquiles to Soufflé Pancakes. Sexy, worldly, explosive. Each bite packed with a wink and a smile.

The night before, my cousin-in-law and I chatted until 3 a.m. Conversations flowed like they always did since we were teenagers. Completely ignoring the fact that we had an early morning flight at 8. By the time we rested our fatigued bodies at one of the outdoor tables shaded by fringed sun umbrellas, strong and mighty cortados were much needed to wake up our sorry butts. Decked out in overalls and chunky earrings, our waiter arrived with my Spanish coffee steaming on top of a phrase in gold, “What a time to be alive.”

Indeed, it always is. Morning glories are ephemeral, and so can be our lives. Except for the one overlooking Little Italy. The lines outside clearly implicit otherwise.