EatHereEatery misses the photographic mark

EatHereEatery's Evil Plan for Mother's Day: cook really good stuff that the men like on Mother's Day EVE, and don't cook at ALL on Mother's Day! A masterful plan. I did it like a shot.

Sue, Erin, and other vegetarian friends: skip this paragraph. I cooked baby back ribs, tiny red potatoes and because I dwell among carnivores, even made a meat loaf for the rest of the week's sandwiches, and as The Lord said on the Seventh Day, It was GOOD. Partly I did this because Dylan does not eat meat loaf, so there are two photos: one is Rodney's plate with meat loaf and his kind of salad, the other is Dylan's plate with ribs and a really good salad, only missing Miss Lorie's famous Tahini Dressing. For myself I made a big salad with Lorie's dressing and some feta cheese - I even made a fresh batch of the dressing. Everyone was happy, except that we missed Mac and the dogs seemed vaguely baffled that my Evil Plan didn't include Excellent Secret People Stuff for them to eat. Otherwise, things mostly went well. Rodney and I took a long walk on the beach Saturday (it was about 200 degrees, as previously mentioned) and we sat on the back porch while we cooked because there was a breeze and the Spanish moss moved in the oak trees. We talked to Mac, we ate well. We were watching TV when one of our neighbors came over to let us know that a big water oak had (seemingly spontaneously) cracked into two huge pieces, fortunately falling onto none of the three nearby houses and not interrupting electric service for any of us. We admired this as well as we could in the dark and went back inside, grateful; we have dealt with some damage from hurricanes and don't take these things lightly.

And then the morning came, bright and blue. And here's where EatHereEatery blew it, my dears: Dylan made breakfast, BROUGHT me breakfast in bed, and I was so stunned I didn't take a picture. You can all slap me now. DID NOT take a picture. I am so ashamed of myself. Here's the thing: he called us with a pretty stealthy grocery list on our way back from the beach, and it included "pancake mix", something I never buy. I said, "If you want pancakes, get the Fanny Farmer book out and make them - they're easy," and thought no more about it. Until this morning, that is, when he appeared with not one but two plates, gloriously brimming with the breakfast you wish your mother had brought you in bed, crowned with perfect, golden homemade pancakes, with Grade A maple syrup. Bacon. I am not kidding you. It was a plate of beauty. And did I take a picture? My loves, I admit I have failed you as my own concentration failed me. No picture, but my endless admiration for a kid who cooks breakfast, delivers it with hilarity and confidence, and brings all that and more to life every day. His dad managed, with equal stealth, to deliver a card so perfect that I knew he'd read every single card in the store, and then allowed me to ignore the tree and go to the beach. We walked for about 4 miles, took pleasure in our still-untouched beach, watched the Goodyear blimp hover over a local golf event, took photos and ignored all the troubles we could think of. Happy Mother's Day, Angie at EatHere. Happy Mother's Day.