My friend Ed makes pancakes for his wife Evelyn every Sunday from scratch. No, you can’t rent him, I’ve already asked.
They top them with the most incredible Vermont made syrup they bring home when they visit their friends who live there. After giving me some I knew, it was all over between me and Aunt Jemima. IT’S SO AMAZING, I’m surprised they don’t have bears knocking on the door.
Ed, Evelyn, you home…hello?
I have this wonderful image of them in their PJs, Ed’s signature Brooks Brothers pajamas Evelyn lovingly puts on the radiator so they’re nice and toasty when Ed gets out of the shower – and rumor has it Ev has a favorite robe only worn on special occasions so I’m thinking, Sundays…she must wear it on Sundays.
I see them cozy at their kitchen table, the Sunday papers scattered across it…she reading Arts and Leisure, he the Book Review serenely eating their pancakes.
What an ad for intimacy and long term fidelity which I’ll admit, sounds like an insurance firm.
Aside from that…
I have a new, young couple who moved in next store. They are lovely, and even come with a dog, a white bishon frise named Bette, who of course I’m seducing every chance I get.
I flirt with her. “I know, you’re not a dog, you’re a little lamb…you can’t fool me.” And she wiggles and wags like any pretty girl hoping for a sweetheart.
I mention them because, not being the chef Ed is, I couldn’t come up with pancakes unless I bought a stack and then they’d be like frisbees by the time they got them, so I left croissants by their door instead with a note, Sunday mornings are so nice when you have someone special to share them with.
A small though corny, neighborly gesture.
They must think I’m crazy…this is New York after all, not Iowa, but so be it. I also left that lamb of theirs a little treat. Now she won’t think I’m crazy.