It's that time of year. The frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock and my wife and I want pumpkin pancakes. I simply cannot imagine why James Whitcomb Riley didn't mention pumpkin pancakes; I find his poem inferior for that lack.
When my wife got up this morning, I cornered her in the bathroom and spoke just two words, "Pumpkin pancakes", daring her with my eyes to contradict me. She replied "I was just thinking that", once again confirming that I married well.
We both knew that meant going out. I could make our own pumpkin pancakes, but they are never quite as good. Of course that's because the restaurants load their batter up with sugar and fat, which I can't bring myself to do. Funny, isn't it: we'll go out to eat things that contain ingredients we will flatly shun at home.
So, we called one of our favorite breakfast places in Plymouth - yes, they do make pumpkin pancakes, but not today. Not today? When? Up to the cook, they said. That doesn't help.
We tried Dave's Diner here in Middleboro next. Nope - same answer, not today, it's up to the chef.
I've seen a sign at Persy's, but the one and only time we went there we sat at a window and noticed dead flies in the sill. Dead flies from last winter or sprayed dead from this season? Who knows? Either way, leaving them there doesn't say much for their cleanliness. We won't eat at Persy's again.
That leaves IHOP, which is not our favorite place. We would happily stop there on a trip for the sake of consistency, but to go there when there are better choices? We hesitate.
Illogical, says the Spock inside me. Too much salt, too much fat, too much sugar. Make your own.
Yes, I know it is illogical, I answer, but we are going to IHOP just the same. Pumpkin pancakes!