Last night, we went out for dinner at one of our neighborhood greasy spoons and ordered breakfast.
Eggs, bacon, hashbrowns, biscuits and gravy, pancakes. The whole nine yards.
Before the aforementioned vittles arrived, my husband reviewed the menu, which was an amalgamation of breakfast, lunch and dinner items and then asked, “Wait, are they still serving breakfast?”
Are they still serving breakfast?! Where exactly do you think we are? Welcome to America, my dear.
It’s one of those minor perks that are easily taken for granted, until you no longer have the option.
When I was living in Scotland, I remember how much I idealized the notion of going out for dessert. Just dessert. Not dinner. Not the full meal. Just a slice of pie or cake or ice cream or whatever at a regular restaurant, which was not well-received and I’m still not sure why. I guess restaurants didn’t want to take up space feeding someone dessert when they could be serving a main meal plus starter, drinks and dessert afterward.
Speaking of dessert, I should add that we did have dessert with breakfast. Something that should be illegal called a pie milkshake, which is precisely what it sounds like. They take a piece of pie of your choice (we went with a caramel pecan pie) and blend it into your standard vanilla ice cream-based milkshake. Who knew something so wrong could taste so right? God bless America.