Another breakfast!?! Two mornings in a row?!? The expectations of my family have gotten well out-of-hand. So there I was, slaving away in the kitchen, adding cantaloupe to my repertoire of pancakes, bacon and eggs...
"Pancake mix," my friend Cathy commented in disgust, "you can't even call that making breakfast." I stared at her in confusion. "What are you talking about," I asked, "how else would you make pancakes?"
"Are you using my fillet knife to cube cantaloupe," Brad asked, wrestling the weapon from my grasp. "Sorry," I retorted, "I left my melon-baller at home." "You wouldn't know a melon-baller if the toothfairy left one labeled for you under your pillow," Cathy said snidely. "Cathy," I said, annoyed, "get out of my blog and enjoy your grilled campfire quiche."
As Brad enjoys what my nephew Talen charmingly refers to as "dippin' eggs" packed between his pancakes, I carefully made sure not to burst too many yolks in my enthusiastic but sloppy flips on the griddle. Placed on the table, I pointed out the sunny-side up eggs to those who wanted them and then watched in horror as Sydney hacked into one and then drizzled gold over our pile of pancakes, bacon and eggs. I pushed my chair back, away from the table. You just don't run into these kinds of problems serving up platefuls of Pop-tarts.
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