If I hadn’t met Charlie for brunch that day at Magnolia House, what would I have been doing instead with my Sunday? Probably what I do every Sunday: preparing for the week ahead or getting caught up with whatever didn’t get done the week past; either way, I’d have been doing work of some kind. That’s my usual Sunday routine, and I’m not complaining—I happen to like work. My life, including on the weekends, may seem uneventful and unexciting to others, but, I like it. Still, as comfortable as routines are, they are also the bane of creativity. A monotonous routine stifles the tendrils of one’s creativity as surely as Monsanto’s Roundup kills the weeds in one’s garden (along with any man, woman, child, or pet in the vicinity).

Therefore, an occasional break from any patterns one has fallen into is a necessary, if not sole, antecedent of creativity. Compelling oneself to write something—anything—as often as one can is another way to stimulate those creative juices. Not that creativity resides only in written work; it can shine through, for instance, in the substitution of goat cheese as an omelet filling instead of a more predictable cheddar or mozzarella. That creative touch by their chef, in addition to the toast–which was truly amazing despite being humble slices of toast–and the quaint decor is why I give this venue a B. I’d add a plus sign to that grade on a day when the venue isn’t quite so crowded and clangorous.

As part of my continuous effort, then, to break free from the stifling bonds of routine, I try my best to do something different, something atypical, at least once a week. On that particular Sunday, I tried a restaurant I’ve never been to before, located on a street that I’ve traversed a hundred times, but where everyday errands would’ve taken me right past this Magnolia House. I met a friend for brunch when the more usual option would’ve been dinner, and I did something recreational on my day off when the more typical scenario would’ve been occupational. As a result, instead of computer screens and students’ assignments, my day became a phantasmagoria of mounted animal heads, of azure sky poking through grey, foamy clouds, of unseasonably cold breezes, of stores closed for Easter Sunday (like, why?), of lovely mansions along Oak Knoll Avenue, of Childish Gambino, of a friend’s hug as we said goodbye. And methinks my creativity has just sprouted a new bud.