Wake-up time? We’ll sleep in until the ungodly hour of 7.30am, lying about like vagabonds. When we finally rise, my bride Megan [Mullally, actor and singer] will put on some contemplative music: Patty Griffin, Thelonious Monk, Philip Glass, Laurie Anderson, early Neil Young.
Breakfast? I’ll make us blueberry pancakes. If we don’t have a nude scene coming up, we’ll enjoy butter and maple syrup on them.
What’s next? We’ll huddle up with our three little dogs and read. Sometimes in the same room, sometimes not, depending on how gassy I am from the pancakes. Megan reads fiction. I’ve always had the feeling I need to catch up with the smart people, so I tend to read nonfiction. I’ve just finished a wonderful book, Gunfight by Ryan Busse.
Sunday lunch? Megan will make her award- winning omelettes with Gruyère and mushroom. Some pearl onions, perhaps. I’m spitballing but that sounds credible. I’ll wash it down with something caffeinated.
Sunday afternoon? We’ll sit at the dining table, a slab of elm fashioned at my wood shop, and do a jigsaw. We have a stack of stupid ones, like fluffy kittens or a fantasy warrior woman, scantily clad, squaring off against a three-headed gorgon. It’s the puzzle equivalent of watching Love Island.
Sunday dinner? Mid-morning, I’ll get a low fire going and start smoking a pork shoulder for eight hours or so. By the time we get to dinner, I can whip us up pulled-pork enchiladas.
Sunday evening? We have a hot tub, so after dinner we’ll get in. I’d describe another paragraph of activity, but ask it be redacted – I believe this is a family publication.
If you could be anywhere next Sunday? The Lake District. I’ve adopted myself into a family of shepherds. I’m dying to get over to Cumbria to see the Rebanks family, their Herdwick sheep and cows. I invested in a heifer for their herd – they can’t get rid of me.