“Smile!” she chirped, snapping pictures as I plated everything. The eggs were folded gently into themselves—silky and golden. The tomatoes blistered and bursting. I fanned the prosciutto out beside a curl of microgreens and added a drizzle of lemon vinaigrette.
“Okay,” I said, stepping back, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. “Now for the tablescape.”
Out came the blush linen runner, my sea-glass napkin rings, and the antique flatware I had shipped in from France last year. Plates of bone white with soft scalloped edges. Pale pink cloth napkins. A vase of hydrangeas. Two coupe glasses filled with grapefruit segments and mint leaves.
By the time it was all finished, it looked like a brunch scene from a Williams-Sonoma catalog come to life—charming, sun-drenched, and effortlessly elegant.
I sat, took one final photo of the setting with my phone, and immediately uploaded it to my blog.
Caption:A serene morning unfolds in Rehoboth, where the world seems to pause just long enough to savor the details. Soft truffle-scrambled eggs, oven-roasted tomatoes, and delicately crisped prosciutto grace the plate—each element thoughtfully prepared. Beside them, Bloody Marys infused with a subtle twist offer a bold yet balanced companion. It’s in moments like these—unrushed, intentional, and quietly luxurious—that life feels exquisitely composed.
I glanced at my mother as she took her seat, placing her napkin in her lap.
“So, what are your plans for today?” she asked.
I sipped my Bloody Mary and smiled. “I thought I’d head down to the beach for a bit. Just relax and listen to the waves. Then maybe a dip in the pool before dinner.”
She gave me an approving nod. “And dinner?”
“Oh, it’ll be stunning,” I said, already picturing it. “Grilled swordfish with citrus-herb butter, roasted fennel, complemented with a peach and burrata salad. And to drink, I was thinking of something summery. Perhaps I’ll open that bottle of rosé you brought.”
She clapped her hands lightly. “Marvelous.”
We lingered over breakfast. The sun streamed in through the French doors. Outside, the garden shimmered, and the ocean murmured in the distance.
After we cleared the dishes, she stood and stretched. “Well, I’m off to Kings Creek Country Club. Bridget and I have brunch with the Stanhopes. Try not to scandalize the neighbors while I’m gone.”
I gave her a mock salute. “No promises.”
As she disappeared down the hall to change, I lingered in the kitchen, still basking in the glow of a perfect morning. For now, everything was in place, precisely as it should be.
Even if a certain bedlamdemon lived next door.
Miles
There is something oddly sacred about the ritual of setting up your own beach sanctuary. I had carved out a perfect spot earlier that morning, strategically placed halfway between the shoreline and the dunes, just close enough to hear the waves crashing without being sprayed by them. My striped navy and cream beach umbrella arched proudly above me, fluttering slightly in the sea breeze. Beneath it, my chair was angled just so—facing the sun, but not directly—because even when I’m relaxing, there’s always intention.
And let me tell you: the sandwich I’d packed was an edible masterpiece. A freshly baked fennel focaccia roll—soft but sturdy—sliced and layered with thinly shaved turkey, arugula, provolone, crisp cucumber ribbons, and a whisper of garlic aioli I whipped up. I added a thin swipe of fig jam on one side of the bread because I believe in contrasts—sweet and savory, crunchy and creamy, indulgent yet refined. It was wrapped lovingly in parchment paper and tied with twine like a tiny gift to myself.
I paired it with hand-cut vegetable chips I baked just before coming to the beach—zucchini, sweet potato, and beet—and tucked in a tiny mason jar of herb-yogurt dip on the side.
Before I took a single bite, I laid everything out on a navy linen napkin and snapped a series of overhead shots for my followers. My Instagram story lit up like Christmas morning. Within seconds, hearts and comments started rolling in.
@CoastalCrumbsAndOrder84: DYING over that fig jam twist!
@SunsetSips_3247:How is your beach lunch prettier than my wedding spread?
@RehobothTabletop:Miles, write another cookbook already!
I smiled, satisfied. Then, inspired by the moment, I propped up my phone against my beach tote and went live.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” I said, angling the camera so my lunch—and the rolling surf in the background—were perfectly framed. My oversized straw hat cast just the right shadow across my face. “It’s a gorgeous day here in Rehoboth Beach, and I thought I’d pop on to share a little tip: never underestimate the power of a well-packed lunch. Whether you’re at the office or soaking up the sun, eating something beautiful—something intentional—can completely change your energy. Today’s sandwich? Focaccia. Turkey. Arugula. And a whisper of garlic aioli and fig jam. The fig jam is the secret. Life is about balance, flavor, and yes—even indulgence.”
I took a slow, deliberate bite and closed my eyes dramatically. “Mmm,” I hummed, swallowing. “Divine.”
The comments rolled in:
@TheMealPrepMuse: This is ASMR for foodies.