Why I Enjoy a Fine Cigar Every Sunday Morning

It not even sunrise when I step onto the back porch. The air is cool and still, with that soft kind of quiet that only exists before the world remembers it has things to do. My puppy trots ahead, tail wagging, doing perimeter checks like an overconfident little security guard with no real plan. I pour a mug of Earl Grey, letting the steam carry that citrus kick of bergamot through the air. Then I sit, take a deep breath, and reach for a fine cigar, thick, bold, and unapologetic. The first cut and the first draw are not about rebellion or routine. They are about claiming a piece of the morning that belongs entirely to me.

The Ritual of Slowing Down

Sunday mornings are my truce with the universe. Everything about the ritual demands intention. I take the cigar from its wrapper, feel its texture, roll it gently between my fingers to wake up the leaf. I clip the cap clean, strike the match, and toast the foot with patience, letting the flame kiss the edge until it glows evenly. No rush, no noise, only fire and breath. Each puff becomes a slow negotiation between control and surrender.

It is a hard reset for a Gen X mind raised on constant motion and digital chaos. I do not need meditation apps or guided breathing exercises. I have smoke and silence. Fifteen square feet of porch serve as a temple built of wood, wind, and time. Out here, I am not chasing anything. I am simply present.

The Taste of Time Well Spent

My humidor is mostly Diesel cigars, those gritty AJ Fernandez creations that hit with character and confidence. I keep a few others for variety, but Diesel owns most of the space. They are strong and unapologetic, exactly how I like my Sunday mornings. Earthy, peppery, with a flavor that grows bolder as the minutes crawl by.

Earl Grey tea sits beside me, the perfect counterbalance. I do not drink coffee. It has never been my thing. Tea is slower and more deliberate. The way it cools just enough between sips fits the rhythm of the smoke. Puff, sip, pause. It is not about productivity. It is about presence. Somewhere in that rhythm, the static in my head clears, and the week ahead begins to take shape. Ideas drift in quietly, half formed and useful. That is the quiet power of a cigar, no Wi Fi, no noise, only space for your own thoughts to show up.

Smoke, Silence, and the Puppy Patrol

The puppy eventually settles beside me, curious but respectful of the calm. My Great Pyrenees princess does her royal patrol of the yard, occasionally stopping for scratches as if granting me a small audience. Somewhere between those moments, I feel the presence of my old friend Loki, the dog who used to sit by my side every Sunday, his head resting on my foot, content with the same stillness I crave now. He is gone, but the ritual keeps him close.

The birds start their morning gossip. The neighborhood stirs awake. I stay right where I am, content to let the world catch up when it is ready. No phone, no scroll, no soundtrack. Only smoke, memory, and the quiet comfort of knowing some things do not need to be rushed. That space of nothing becomes everything, a reset button wrapped in leaf and flame.

A Tradition, Not a Habit

This is not compulsion. It is ceremony. One cigar, once a week. A ritual of reflection, gratitude, and permission to be still. I do not drink coffee. Tea fits better. It is patient, like the smoke. By the time the last curl drifts off into the morning air, I feel ready for whatever comes next. A fine cigar every Sunday morning is not about escape. It is about showing up centered, grounded, and a little more human than I was an hour ago.

Yeah, I Know It Is Not Healthy

Sure, cigars are not kale smoothies. I know the warnings, the risks, the disclaimers. I have read them all. But here is the thing: neither is living wound tight and ready to explode from stress. Perspective matters. One fine cigar once a week is my peace treaty with the world. It keeps me calm, thoughtful, and less likely to lose it in traffic or at the grocery store.

And while we are being honest, neither is a hamburger and fries. Yet no one bats an eye at that weekly drive thru indulgence. At least my ritual does not come with a side of guilt and grease. I would argue that the relaxation I get from a cigar is far better than the extra pounds of stress and fast food regret that pile up when people eat garbage just to cope.

We all need a way to unwind. Mine just happens to involve smoke, oak, and quiet reflection.

My Humidor and Cigar of Choice

People always ask what I smoke. The answer is simple. Diesel. Strong, bold, and full of attitude. It is a kick in the mouth in the best possible way, the kind that wakes up the senses and reminds you that life is meant to be felt, not rushed. My humidor is packed tight with Diesel and other AJ Fernandez goodness, each one a small masterpiece waiting for its turn. When I open that lid, the smell of cedar and tobacco greets me like an old friend. Every stick has a story, and every Sunday, I pick one that fits the mood. Some people collect art or cars. I collect patience in cigar form, stored and ready for the next quiet morning on the porch.

Want to Join Me?

Find your own ritual. Maybe it is coffee. Maybe it is a quiet drive. Maybe it is a cigar that reminds you to slow down and breathe. Whatever it is, make it yours and make it sacred. The world is not going to hand you peace. You have to carve it out, light it up, and protect it with everything you have.