How would one go about making gingerbread pancakes?  It can’t be that hard right?  And ha, I’ve only had two sips of coffee and it took me the entire typing of those first two sentences for me to realize I could just Google it.  To complete this experiment I would also need to procure lemon curd.  So I guess it isn’t happening today, although Publix will probably come through for me on the ingredients.

Last night I dreamt that Libelle and I moved into a new house.  It was strangely laid out and needed a lot of work (just like our current house!!).  In the dream, as we were moving, and all our friends were helping us lay new floors through the place, I went outside and saw hoards of traffic.  Apparently it was game day, UT (Tenn) vs. UT (Texas) (and no, I have no idea if these teams would really play each other in football) and we’d moved in right across from the stadium (which I guess means we either moved to Kville or Texas?).  Oh No! My dream self thought, the Nashvillest girls warned me about this!  I have to decide before game day if I am going to leave the house at all, and time it around the traffic.  And I started shaking, grabbed a friend and kind of collapsed against him and started sobbing.  When he asked what was wrong, I choked out that I’d only just realized that I’d left East Nashville, and if I’d realized before then I never would have moved.

So clearly, the mental message here is: don’t leave East Nashville.  Heh.  The weird thing is though, that actually the stadium’s location traps us in east Nashville when the Titans play.  The traffic management is so bad that we are left with only a couple options for getting into the city and those are generally the long, very very long way ’round. It’s hard to say, really, if my psyche is warning me against moving out of E. Nash, or if it is just anxious about football season.  Which, uh, preseason isn’t even until like August or something, right?  Also, damn it, Tennessee, what have you done to me that I am dreaming about football.

Anyway, somehow I woke up from all of this fantasizing about gingerbread pancakes with lemon curd.  Which I think I read about soemwhere recently, as this isn’t something I would generally make up myself.  Alas, I have no lemon curd (which is a shame, I should perhaps always have some in the house, of course I’d just eat it and have to get more), nor buttermilk to make the pancakes with.  I could instead make waffles with apple butter.  It seems almost as good, but only almost.  Hmm, maybe I will have bacon instead.  Why is Sunday breakfast always so late and such a production?  What I am really asking here is: why does someone not just bring me exactly what I want for breakfast on Sundays?