If Lovin' Them Is Wrong, I Don't Want To Be Right

I think my love of pancakes might be maybe more than the law allows.

I seriously love me some freakin' pancakes. I love them so much, I even eat the center part, where they put the melon-baller scoop of butter, that tends to get soggy.

I make pancakes at home from scratch. I don't even use Bisquick.

I eat pancakes for dinner. I ate them the day I moved to Lakewood in March at 5 pm with all the early birders. (I ate Luby's the next day. It was an early-bird theme that week.) I've even found a parking space in the shade for the next time I eat pancakes.

I want people to come over on the weekends so I have to get out of bed early and make even more pancakes.

I like them silver dollar-sized and the short stack. I like blueberry pancakes, but the blueberries have to be cooked in the batter, not poured over the top in that sticky compote concoction. I like potato pancakes, thanks to Hanukkah at Matt's house. Hold the sour cream.

I like them with strawberry jam smeared between the layers. I'll even go crazy sometimes and put grape jelly on one layer. I like waffles too, but I eat them with peanut butter and honey. I don't make them at home because I don't have a waffle iron. I just Leggo with the Eggos to my everlasting culinary shame.

I do not like syrup. No maple-smelling sludge on my beloved pancakes. The thought makes me want to purge. It's tree blood. I can't eat that shit.