One night this past week (can’t remember which night but might once this lovely Colombian dark roast with a couple splashes of hazelnut creamer kicks in) I decided to make breakfast for dinner. I mean, fluffy buttermilk pancakes topped with sliced bananas and a thick caramely (it’s a word!) salted maple syrup reduction, country sausages and eggs scrambled with shredded colby and cheddar cheeses. The works.
I must’ve done something right ’cause the plates look so appetizing, really just plain pretty. Told the guys to wait a sec so that I could take a picture (planned to post it here and on Facebook).
Well, somebody *dad* who shall remain nameless *I said it was dad* was so excited that his numbers were excellent and he could have a little of the sugary syrupy goodness, that a good third of that pretty plate was gone by the time I got back! I’m serious, it took all of twenty seconds to go to my room for my cellphone and return to the dining room.
Just couldn’t hate – or fuss – the man was too, too happy. Every once in a while it’s okay and if push comes to shove, I’ll stand in proxy for his morning glucose readings. I happen to have an in with the one who tests it every morning…right now, she’s sippin’ from my favorite coffee mug and typing with the other hand.