Golden Harvest

On Friday mornings when I don't have to study, go to class, or do something else that exercises my mind and makes me a more successful person, I like to go to an early yoga class. If I could go to a yoga class every morning at 6, I would be a happy person. Assuming, of course, that I went to bed at 6pm. I don't play around with sleep.

A few weeks ago on one of my yoga Friday mornings, Mom wanted to go out to breakfast. She mentioned the magic words- Golden Harvest- and I knew that I wasn't going to make it into a downward dog. Golden Harvest is a Lansing institution, one of those places that everybody loves and drools over and where you don't want to take your out-of-town friends unless you're sure that they can handle it. More on that at a later date.

Our wait at GH was only about 20 minutes that day, which is nothing. Mommy Dearest got some special waffle with strawberries and vanilla bean, and I got the Elvis Waffle. Or it might be called the King. Something like that. You'll know it when you see it, because it's smothered in bananas, peanut butter, and chocolate.

I think of this waffle every morning as I stare into my bowl of Kashi, oatmeal, or nonfat plain Greek yogurt. I eagerly await the day that I waltz back into Golden Harvest, plop myself down, and start stuffing my face, Elvis-style.  

Paula Deen called. She wants her diabeetus back. It's delicious.