Every Friday morning the kid and I have breakfast together before school / camp. This morning we tried a new location, one just a short walk away from camp and one where the cinnamon rolls were sitting in a prominent location approximately forty-three-and-one-half inches above the floor which is precisely where they should be located if they are to be spotted by the younger set. For almost four years now, ever since eating things more solid than a fine mush, we have been eating breakfast at the same store on Friday mornings. When I did not work on Fridays it was our first stop on our way to our morning activity, and now it’s just a good way to make at least the first hour of the Friday feel like the “old days”. And on almost every one of those Friday mornings she has ordered the same bagel, sliced the same way, hold the cream cheese, please. Until yesterday. That cinnamon roll was “the size of her head” and it was just calling out her name. So she tried it. On the way to the table she assured me that we could split it it was so large. As I quartered it she eyed each quadrant’s mass and revised her previous generous offer to one quarter. As she took the first melty, buttery, oozingly, cinnamonly first bite she closed her eyes for a brief second and all generosity vanished from the table. “On second thought,” she said, “I think you should just stick to your scone.”
What is that Amelia Bedelia doing this time?!?