Still soaking wet from hot yoga, I found a text message from my husband, "We’re waiting at [trendy pancake joint] to get in. It will be about 10 minutes. Join us?"
Me, "No thank you. Enjoy. Please don’t bring me anything. Don’t bring home the leftovers on my account."
This new pancake place is divine and breakfast foods (I’m not talking Cheerios, here) are my favorite: pancakes soaked with maple syrup with every variety of decadent combinations imaginable, Belgium waffles with deep pockets of melted butter dusted with powdered sugar, thick slices of French toast that taste like bread pudding, 3 egg cheesy omelets with chunks of ham and sauteed veggies, enormous blueberry muffins with sugar encrusted tops. Oh yeah, I could have breakfast three meals a day.
Like many restaurants these days, this one serves enormous portions that could feed 3 to 4 people at least. Some folks (not many if you take a look at US obesity rates) are great at portion control. They eat what they need and bring home the rest. Or discard it. Me, if the food is that good, and even when it is not, I will continue eating until my 3-year-old is under the table napping in the coats, my 11-year-old is lost in a book, and my husband is standing up with his coat on, check paid, ready to go. The pleasure of those huge brunches is only fleeting. The pain will most certainly come later in my fickle gut, inflamed joints and with the befuddlement of my thoughts.
Best not to join them, today. Let that be their special Sunday morning daddy fun time. For me, I’m having a green smoothie, or I’ll whip up a beautiful batch of tabbouleh with flax bread on the side, or some raw-vegan banana pancakes.
And I don’t even feel the tiniest bit of deprivation.
(Well, maybe just a smidge.)