Tomorrow’s breakfast has expanded from making biscuits and gravy to eggs Benedict and sourdough pancakes. Oooh, we even have leftover homemade whipped cream in a glass Tupperware, locked and loaded for a sugary flapjack topping.
I feel cluttered and can’t think clearly. I need to rattle the pennies out of my brain, a good old-fashioned mind dump to get the coins to stop clinking around up there. So tonight, after I write this, I’ll mix up the pancake batter, slap some plastic wrap on that bad boy, and call that part good.
One sec. Dave and Evelyn are nearby watching Dinosaur and collectively, we all paused our respective hobbies and entertainment to watch the bunny zoom across the carpet like Mario Andretti, circling the whole U-shaped couch. I bet he’s keeping up his chops—which is a term I haven’t used in a while, but I do dig it.
Also tonight, I’ll leave out the butter, since hollandaise sauce needs softened butter. I need to remember to use the cast iron skillet for the sausage—the meat bits and grease crunk embed into the pan and later release when I slap in that milk for gravy.
And then, going in the opposite direction, I need to freeze butter, too. It makes “cutting it into the flour” easier for biscuits. I’ve gotta track down my rainbow-fingernail-painted biscuit guy on TikTok—the one who says, “I like to make my biscuits really biscuit.” His recipe never fails me.
I should also look up a hollandaise recipe tonight. When I scramble to find one in the morning, I rush and always seem to mess up the sauce. So a little pre-planning should go a long way toward making tomorrow smooth.
Oh! I just remembered Dave’s idea to make home fries out of that bag of russets in the pantry. Dang. That sent me over the edge. My mouth is watering.
Maybe I’d better get to work just to keep my mind off food. In preparation for my impending breakfast gorge, I skipped dinner tonight. Which is fine. But I can’t just sit and daydream about butter. I need to move.
If you need any recipes, I’d be happy to share.
But one thing before I go. At Sam’s Club earlier, I noticed two shelves of plants—lush, large-leafed beauties, the kind of tropicals I adore. At the same moment, a gentleman stepped up beside me, doing exactly the same thing. A dapper man, with white-rimmed gold glasses and a low-riding fedora. His granddaughter was in tow, but he left her in the dust as he approached, just like I did, to marvel.
“I don’t have one of these,” he said, cupping the giant monstera leaf in his hand.
“Oh, I love those,” I told him.
And just like that, it was on. As we stood there ogling the plants, we swapped plant stories like old friends. He has five plants per room, he told me, and a handful of snake plants, which I’ve yet to add to my new collection. Poor grandkid wandered off, eventually finding a shelved kids’ book to keep her company while we chatted.
Later, at the exit, I gave him a parting glance, hoping for one last goodbye. But he was already mid-handshake with someone else he knew. So I let him be.
Talk to you tomorrow.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 