Somewhere it is written, or it is now, that if your mom is a gazillion (cough, 35 weeks and 4 days, not that anyone is counting) weeks pregnant and she is the one that under ideal circumstances provides you with dinner, sooner or later that dinner is going to be breakfast pancakes with a side of bacon. You probably won’t mind.
It might be because she’d spent the first half of her week in Jury Duty, something she believes in so strongly in an abstract sense but, like most people, was resentful of as she spent two days sitting in a windowless room, watching her cankles swell (some recliners would be great, New York Supreme Court, kthx!), reaching a boredom level that can only be described as: well, she’s finally tackled Knausgaard. Maybe it’s because we had a little too much at our impromptu 15-pounds o’ ribs fest on the patio last weekend, and it hadn’t occurred to her to cook since. Or maybe it’s because it’s her birthday and while she had great plans for a towering strawberry shortcake stack, it turned out her energy level was more in line with a not-so-towering strawberry pancake stack.