I don’t know why I love pancakes so. I could eat them, easily, every morning for breakfast. I don’t, but I know I could.
I don’t like pastries in the morning. I tolerate oatmeal. But pancakes. Yeah, pancakes.
I’ve mentioned this a time or three before. When I pass through Richmond, I will stop at Aunt Sarah’s Pancake House.
My brother’s restaurant of choice is the International House of Pancakes. I have a preference for Aunt Sarah’s. (And don’t talk to me about Waffle House. Just don’t.)
When I was in college, there was an Aunt Sarah’s on Broad Street, a couple miles west of campus. Lovely place. It’s gone now, as I discovered, much to my annoyance, a few years ago.
There’s still an Aunt Sarah’s much closer into the city on Broad Street. It’s not the same as the one I frequented in college, but it’s nice. The last two times I’ve been there (in June 2009, when two friends got married; on Christmas Eve, when I went to Raleigh to spend Christmas with my sister and niece), I’ve had the same waitress, an older black woman, probably near sixty, very thin and wiry. I’ve always tipped her well; at Christmas I left her a ten dollar tip, on a bill that was slightly less than that. She was always very kind, and always very patient.
I will eat pancakes plain. I love pancakes with banana bits. Or covered in strawberries. Or topped by whipped cream. Or with apples. Or chocolate chips. Or chocolate chips and Bailey’s.
In other words, I like pancakes. I like them plain. I like them with stuff.
In short, I’m not picky when it comes to pancakes.