I took myself out to breakfast yesterday morning. It’s not something that I would ordinarily do, but I was out and about extra early for a doctor’s appointment and afterwards I felt like I deserved a treat.  Maybe it was the lingering scent of rubbing alcohol and the sting from my flu shot, but I needed comfort. The sky was threatening rain and I had no umbrella. I stepped out onto the sidewalk from the Walgreen’s pharmacy and spotted a breakfast place, a temple of All American over eating, across the street. I ducked in from the light drizzle and was seated right away in a cozy red leatherette booth just right for one.

Craving a steaming short stack

I had had pancakes on my mind since before I arrived. I had a taste for earthy whole grains blended in for a dense chewy texture. And I wanted fruit on top, perhaps bananas or blueberries, nothing too cloying or sweet, and my favorite walnuts. I started to sip coffee from a thick white china mug and paused to consider the menu left behind by the teenaged waitress.

The wide selection of waffles pictured on the first page of the sticky plastic menu caught my attention. Belgian waffles with diced bacon on top, an egg or sliced strawberries. My digestive juices started flowing at the images of melting butter and cascading pools of genuine maple syrup.  I felt as giddy as a grade school kid on a sugar high.

Now waffles may be from Belgium, and thin, crusty crepes from France, but pancakes are definitely American and they’re my favorite pick-me-up on a gray morning. Buttermilk, buckwheat, multi-grain – any kind will do. I sneaked a peak around the corner of my booth at the plates of other diners. I wanted to be sure to get the best pancake bang for my buck.

Minutes later, when the young waitress returned, I looked up at her smoky mascara eyes and said, “I’ll have the egg white and three veggie omelet.”

“Bagel toasted and dry?” she deadpanned as she poured me more coffee.  She knew me better than I knew myself.

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