Breakfast burrito diplomacy

Carmen showed up at 9am with breakfast burritos wrapped in foil like little silver presents. “I made extra,” she said, which in Carmen-speak means she planned this whole thing and knew exactly when I’d be stumbling around the kitchen looking for caffeine.

Breakfast burrito diplomacy

She unwrapped them with the ceremony of someone revealing classified documents while I attempted to make decent coffee. “Your coffee always tastes like sadness,” she announced, watching me measure grounds. “Too much water, not enough patience.” She’s not wrong. I approach coffee brewing like I’m late for something, which I usually am.

The great breakfast burrito unveiling

The burritos were perfect - scrambled eggs, crispy potatoes, some kind of salsa verde that made everything taste like Carmen’s grandmother was personally invested in my morning happiness. We ate them standing at the breakfast bar, debating whether Jake’s new habit of leaving guitar picks everywhere counts as “organized chaos” or just chaos.

Saturday mornings have become our unofficial breakfast summit meetings. No agenda, just coffee criticism and whatever Carmen decides I need to eat. It’s the kind of friendship routine that sneaks up on you - one day you’re just friends, the next you’re someone who keeps extra mugs clean because Carmen might appear with food.