Saturday mornings you can usually find my wife and I
on a breakfast date. Guess what I order? No, seriously, guess!
I Stop at I Hop
Oh Pancake, You steaming stack of syrupy circles.
Dripping delicious delight with every bite
till my chin is sticky.
If breakfast were baseball, I’d cry “batter up”
and watch them sizzle, then slowly drizzle
Mrs. Butterworth’s magic maple
till, like a waterfall, it cascades from peak to plate.
Oh you Flapjack, I sip my coffee while they make
this cousin to the funnel cake.
The next booth over, toddlers stand
with pancakes squishing in each hand.
Hot syrup finally comes my way;
the first act in my passion play.
“More coffee hon?” the waitress asks.
Apparently she doesn’t grasp
my need to wrap my mouth around
that perfect pile of golden brown
Oh you Griddle cake, where pats of butter go to melt
and I’m forced to un-do my belt.
I gorge on all that I can get
from fruit filled blintz to Crepes Suzette.
It seems so long, it’s hard to wait.
Is that my waitress with my plate?
Oh no, this just is awful
she’s bringing me a Belgian waffle
piled high with berries and whipped cream.
My wife’s all smiles; I want to scream.
The waffle is her breakfast treat
but where is what I WANT TO EAT?
At last I see them, piping hot.
This is gonna hit the spot.
I just can’t wait; my heart’s a flutter.
The waitress says, "Here’s extra butter."
I gaze upon that glorious plate.
I tell you, it was worth the wait
Jeff Hildebrandt © 2010