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Saturday, February 26, 2011

the fire lane

Home in Mechanicsville this weekend.   No trays, no tips, no long hours.  Just family, friends and coffee.  Lots of coffee.

I woke up this morning to the flooding of the sun into my Tiffany blue bedroom and the smell of my Dad's famous waffles crawling up the steps.

When I was a little girl, I absolutely loved Saturday mornings for this very reason.  Every Saturday would either be pancakes or waffles day with Dad. 

I'd step into the kitchen early Saturday mornings in our little house on the Fire Lane - I always loved the name of the road I grew up in.  The Fire Lane house was a very small brick ranch on over an acre of lush green property.  To look at it now, it seems more like a dollhouse rather than a starter home for a family of three.  

But it was where my family began.  And it was where the Saturday breakfast tradition began.  I'd come running down the hallway in my barefeet and my favorite floor-length night gown that made me feel like a princess.  I'd find my Dad in the kitchen cracking eggs and pouring milk into a large plastic bowl. 

Always feeling like quite the culinary genius, I'd ask my dad to hold me up over the counter.  I'd stir the batter until it was thick and smooth.

When breakfast was ready, I'd smoother the crisp, brown waffles in some sort of Smucker's syrup.  It made everything sticky and wonderful. 

I don't know if I should divulge the fact that I loved pancake syrup so much that one morning my mom woke to find me sitting on the floor of our pantry, drinking boysenberry syrup straight up from the bottle.  

This morning I didn't wake early enough to help my Dad stir the batter, but we did sit around and chat it up, like the old days on Fire Lane.  I was still his barefoot, curly-haired, syrup loving daughter.  We talked about our latest musical downloads (his, Lionel Richie's greatest hits, mine Adele's new album, 21).



Happy Saturday!

B.
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