Like many people, I don’t make a habit of indulgence, in fact, I allow myself only semi-annual immersions into the world of brexcess (breakfast excess, so clever). Last Sunday, with a mountain of home improvement projects ahead of me and the delusional idea that I could rechannel all those carbohydrates into kinetic energy, the hubs and I headed to Crossroads Diner to roll around in what many have referred to as the best %$*& pancakes around.
jump for brekky pics…
Now, I may not be in MENSA like Tim, but I know enough to acknowledge that I was playing with fire. The experiment could go very right (living room painted, tile excavated, garden tilled) or very, very wrong (asleep on the living room floor, snoring on the cool tile, napping with the dog in the freshly turned earth outside our bedroom window).
While the majority of our entrees were good, sometimes verging on great (corned beef hash, chorizo frittata, chicken & spinach crepe, sticky bun) sometimes verging on forgettable (hash browns)—and the service ran hot & cold, the joy of finally getting a mouthful of Tom Fleming’s buttermilk pancakes (sweet with a sourdough finish) revved me up sufficiently for the task ahead.
As for the outcome, I did everything I foretold—both succeeding and failing in equal measure. Although I’m not sure which category a nap outside with the dog on a Sunday afternoon falls into.
