By Molly Smith
MOLLY SMITH / UP Blog Writer
It's that point in the semester when my mind starts to drift away from lectures in class, lost in daydreams of home. I imagine my dad picking me up from the airport, my mom waiting with open arms as I walk through the door, and the sweet relief of collapsing into the comfort of my queen-sized bed.
So here's my perfect 24 hours in my hometown, Fairfield, Connecticut.
I wake up to the sound of my dad's music blasting from the kitchen—Grateful Dead or Bruce Springsteen, depending on the mood. My mom, who somehow manages to wake up at 6 a.m. every day (I’ll never understand how), is already out on a 7-mile hike, as she does.
I know exactly who to call for breakfast: Country Cow Deli. Getting through on the first try on a Sunday morning is basically impossible. Everyone in town is calling at once, all hoping to snag their classic bacon, egg, and cheese. But those sandwiches… they’re a world apart from what we get out here in Ohio. There’s something truly magical about the way they cook it—the bacon made to a perfect crisp, the gooey egg, and the sandwich roll that’s just soft enough. My mom swears it’s something about the water, but I just think it’s something about the way it tastes back home that makes everything better.
To wash it down, I swing by The Pantry, another Fairfield classic. Their cold brew—made with La Colombe coffee—is a necessary start to the day.
After breakfast, I grab my keys and drive down Reef Road till I hit the beach. No real plan in mind, I just end up here as if by instinct. My best friends meet me here, and as we walk along the shore, with the ocean on one side and our beautiful town on the other, I can’t help but smile. It’s cold now, with autumn in full swing, but that doesn’t stop us. With the clear skies, you can look straight across the Long Island Sound and see the New York City skyline. People have their trailers parked and are riding their horses on the sandbar.
You can feel the peace in the air, like nothing else matters.
As the evening starts to set in (the sun goes down at 4:30 now), I head back home to see my mom getting logs for the fire.
“You gonna just stand there or are you gonna help me?” she asks. Grabbing firewood is easily my least favorite chore, but it’s always worth it.
When the fire-pit is lit, I grab my favorite blanket, throw my fuzzy socks on, and sit outside with my parents. The Giants game is on (my parents are hopelessly loyal to our losing team), and my cousins have just arrived for our weekly Sunday night dinner.
Charcuterie boards fill the table, and my dad and Uncle KC are already firing up the grill. We’re having my favorite meal tonight: skirt steak, mashed potatoes, and asparagus. My Aunt Jenny is making me another one of her fall-themed cocktails, each one better than the last.
As we sit around the dinner table, the familiar sounds of Frank Sinatra and Ray Charles play softly in the background—the perfect soundtrack to our night. Usually, we play our favorite game, “Question Time,” where one person picks the topic and we all go around answering questions like “If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you live?” or “If you could have any job, what would it be?” This time, we talk about family—my Aunt Jenny and my mom share stories from their childhood and talk about how important these traditions are to them (and us).
We even start planning our upcoming Thanksgiving party, which, judging by the number of RSVPs, is going to be a night to remember. The headcount is already up to 82, and we’re expecting a big spread: four turkeys, two hams, and enough pies to feed hundreds (although we somehow go through the leftovers by Saturday).
As Etta James sings "A Sunday Kind of Love," I feel like I could stay here forever, talking with my family, soaking in these little moments that make everything feel so right. But I know that my flight back to school is early tomorrow, and we’ll have to leave extra early to avoid the CT-NY border traffic.
There’s something about these moments—these quiet, familiar, and perfect moments—that makes it so hard to leave, but so easy to come back.
My mind snaps back in, and suddenly I’m back in my Media Globalization and Film class. My professor is going on about some assignment due next Tuesday, but my mind is a thousand miles away, back in Fairfield.
Home, sweet home.