Pancakes

pancakes

Me and my husband have a routine on Fridays. We call it ‘Adventure Friday’ and we make sure to do something fun and adventurous…unless, of course, we’re both in the mood for a TV/couch marathon. Those Fridays are epic in their own way; cosying up with sleepy doggies, putting the show on pause to get more coffee, general ‘ahhhhhh…relaxation’ time. 

Adventure Fridays are all about getting out and about and enjoying life, because that’s what life is all about; having fun with the people you love. It’s even better when your husband is also your best friend; it makes for doubly-fun adventures.

From holding baby alligators to drinking water from the fountain of youth, we have definitely remained true to the notion of ‘adventure’. However, we don’t need to climb Mount Everest every weekend. Sometimes we pick somewhere to eat. The only ‘rule’ is that it has to be somewhere new.

Well, the day I discovered the International House of Pancakes, I broke this sacred rule.

On my first visit I had the french toast with strawberries and banana. Sounds healthy, right? 

WRONG.

Tip: Even things which SOUND healthy in America usually aren’t. Everything is rich, indulgent, over-the-top.

I. LOVE. FOOD.

Well, sitting there that first time, the waitress walks down the aisle and I’m thinking ‘No, that can’t be it’. She stops at our table. ‘She probably got the wrong table, I ordered something sensible’…I mean, it’s just fruit and toast, really, isn’t it?

The waitress stops, checks the order.

It’s correct.

Oh holy moly, how am I going to eat this? There’s enough French toast here for a French army breakfast. The strawberries are bigger than golf balls, and the banana…no, no, no, not going down the innuendo route. This is a serious website. Innuendos would impair the seriousness of the sombreness of the academia behind all this arty-farty-wannabe-comedian-rubbish.

But you get my drift; this feast was obviously prepared for a giant. Or a dinosaur.

Mmmmmm. Chomp chomp. Gone.

Wow I really surprise myself sometimes. Turns out I can devour a mountain.

Who knew?

It disappeared before I even remembered eating it. I don’t know where it went.

I think the potential fatty in me stole it.

When I say ‘potential’, I mean ‘on my way there’. My wardrobe is now filled with about 60-70% of clothes that don’t fit me anymore and the rest are new clothes I bought to feel less like a fatty.

I don’t want to sound like a whiny diet-addict, but honestly, I’m putting on weight. I know by my tummy. My tummy is where all my weight goes. I have noticed it getting softer…and softer…and softer…and oh, I’m trying so hard to be self-disciplined. But then I go to IHOP and order something ‘sensible’ and it arrives, and it’s a mountain, and I just can’t resist. I try to balance it out by ordering sweet one week, savory the next; but the sweet always wins. 

‘Oh, I’ll just skip lunch’ 

Lunch-time arrives.

Burger and chips/fries? Why the heck not. 

‘Oh, I’ll just skip dinner’

Darn, I forgot: while munching dinner.

Plus, I have a husband who loves curves, so really I’m just being a good wife by eating my way to a Kardashian-esque booty. What can I say, I’m a considerate person.

Darn you International-Pancake-Place. Who knew?

Who knew you would be my undoing?

Oh well, I tell myself:

Idealist self: Becoming a fatty means you’re happy. Happiness is much more important than physical appearance.

Cynical self: Yea…but that doesn’t mean you have to go hay-wire with this idea.

Idealist self: Oh shut up and pass me the tub of mayonnaise so I can eat it with a spoon.