I am not a morning person. Runs in the family. My sister and I were the only kids I have literally EVER heard of who had to be pulled out of bed on Christmas morning, once we knew the joy of sleeping in. Or at least the joy of not-getting-up-just-because-you-are-told-to-and-the-whole-house-is-up-you’re-going-to-miss-it-fine-nevermind-we’ll-just-leave-you-alone. However, there is one thing which remains absolutely WORTH getting up early for, almost exclusively on Saturdays. The Pancake Breakfast. I really don’t care who’s throwing it, or why. I mean, of course I care-it’s just that whether it is a small town fire department, or an airplane hanger bursting with members of the Tampa Bay Goth Senior Citizens Unite members-pancake breakfasts are consistently awesome.
I got a hot tip on a food truck sighting in Los Feliz, and hot-footed it over there pronto. (And by “hot tip” I mean I consulted my RoadStoves iphone app, a comprehensive listing of all the working food trucks, and their GPS locations. And by “hot-footed,” I mean took the 101 to Franklin, and adhered to all speed limits.)
As I walked back to my car, drowsy with pancakes, but good-natured from drinking something from a straw, it occurred to me that thanks to Lana, the gastrobus, and a near-worshipful relationship with pancakes, the first truck-fooding had been about as perfect as can be. And it all went down at 1:00 in the afternoon. I didn’t even have to get up early.