Sunday breakfast is a little different when you let yourself sleep in. The pancake griddle stays still in the pantry, wedged between paper towels with the other pans. You wake up to the smell of ground beef, pork and lamb simmering in olive oil and garlic.

Before the tomatoes go in, the meatballs are spooned out, cracking open like cooling lava, to reveal a folded basil leaf and a little pink.

If you hang around a bit, peek your nose over the edge of the pot, the operation will keep one in through the second and third round, to take on a darker crust from the extra time and mingling oils.

If you can bear to wait for the tomatoes to warm up, you’ll get a little splash.

But who are we kidding? It’s nearly ten thirty.