IT’S PANCAKE DAYS again and the diet police are out.
“Don’t use them ALL!” the 4-year-old across from me says when I open a second butter.
“I won’t,” I say. “Just two.”
“But not ALL of them!”
“No, not all of them. Just 2.”
She looks me up and down, then turns to the woman beside her and reports me.
“You just sit up there and eat your pancakes,” the woman says.
At the historic twin-towered church downtown we stood in a line that extended all the way down the stairs and out the door. For pancakes. An annual tradition. But it’s not about the pancakes.
The line moved quickly. Inside we encountered my excellent next door neighbors. And the aforementioned butter patrol. The college basketball team. A 3-time Pelotonia rider who’s just signed up for her 4th go at it. Also, the couple selling the house on 4th street that I’ve always loved. (I only think about it when I’m on 4th Street or when I run into the couple selling it, but it really isn’t for me and I know it.)
Every year, I think the same thought, that we all come out for pancakes at the beginning of February like groundhogs poking our heads up through a hole to see if spring is still on the schedule. It’s nice to see people. And if it’s Pancake Days, then Lent must be right around the corner, which means Easter can’t be far off.
Nah, it’s not about the pancakes, though this year’s were the best ever. It was probably that 2nd container of (faux) butter.
I felt like a school girl, drinking milk out of a little carton with a straw. 🙂