There are very few things I love more than going out to breakfast. Going out to breakfast is like magic. It’s not something that occurs often enough in my life. Maybe that’s what makes it so special.
“Going out to breakfast” is one of the most decadent pleasures. It smacks of sleeping late, or not having been to bed yet. Of slothful days off, or breakfast potatoes after a long night. Coffee in cups that are half the size of the mug I use at home. Chocolate chip pancakes, sides of bacon. When calories are not to be counted, fat content ignored. It’s breakfast. Relax. You’re out to breakfast.
There was a time when we went out to breakfast once a week, without fail. Languid summer weekdays, spending a few hours at the pancake house plotting our attack, talking crap, reading the local weekly paper aloud to each other, making long term plans, falling in love. But jobs & schedules changed, finances. Breakfast is now a luxury.
My boss gave us gift cards at holiday time to a local restaurant that does an amazing High Falutin’ Breakfast. We’re finally going on Friday as a celebratory wrap up to what has been a 40th Birthday Week. It’s all I really wanted for my birthday, to go out to breakfast. A leisurely reverie over eggs or french toast, over orange juice & sides of toast.
It’s really all I wanted, to go out to breakfast, and I’m practically giddy with excitement.