So I went over to my daughter-in-law Brenda's house in Pleasant Grove last night for pizza. She was having all the nearby kids over while husband Stephen is out east in Vermont building greenhouses. We were a cozy bunch, munching Pizza Hut pepperoni specials and drinking bottled water while the grand kids ran up stairs to fight and then come back down to tattle on each other.
I handed out quarters and sage advice, such as "You can pick your nose and you can pick your friends, but you can't pick your friend's nose." One and all thought my japes and jests so profound that they begged me to step outside so they could lock the door behind me. But I fooled 'em all -- I super-glued myself into the recliner and refused to budge.
Stephen Skyped just as everyone was getting ready to leave. He asked me to stay overnight with Brenda because she is having some health issues and he wanted someone to be on hand in case there were any midnight emergencies. I graciously acceded to his request and spent the night on the couch in relative comfort and peace. This morning Brenda offered to take me to Kneaders for their all-you-can-eat French Toast special. Once again, I graciously acceded. I do that a lot . . .
The place was packed with mostly women revelers on a sugar and carbo binge. Their Christmas decorations are already up. An order of French Toast and a large milk cost $7.89.
They still sell bread at Kneader's, but the place is now a foodie franchise that caters to the LDS love of sweets and sentiment. Their booths are impossibly tight for a fat guy like me to sit in. That tells me their management doesn't eat there often.
The French Toast is thick and shot through with cinnamon. The syrup has an apple tang to it. This looked to be a four or five slice binge for Mrs.Torkildson's son; but I could only eat two slices before feeling as full and gassy as a blimp:
I'm giving the place Four Burps, mostly because they deliver what they promise -- sweet carbs and starch and gluten. There was a time when I would have tore through such a place like a cyclone, leaving behind nothing but crumbs and a wisp of powdered sugar. But my inner Falstaff falters, and I yearn for nothing more toothsome than a cup of bone broth and a hard boiled egg, chased with a glass of Alka Seltzer.
I had promised my grand son Ohen that I would review the Black Sheep Cafe today -- he says it's his parents favorite place to eat in Provo. Sorry, Ohie -- but Grandpa is probably not going to be able to make it there today. One more meal eaten out today and my liver and lights will go on strike.
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