Breakfast for Dinner

Despite all appearances to the contrary, I very much enjoy life as an adult. One thing I like about being grown up is having the ability to eat whatever I want whenever I want to eat it. Of course, it is sensible and mature to eat healthy, well-balanced meals at appropriate mealtimes. I strive to adhere to those mores of consumption, but sometimes I cannot avoid having breakfast for dinner.

I was not the best eater as a child. My mother's excellent culinary skills aside, I was simply not moved by beef stew, pot roast, and the countless other protein and vitamin-filled staples of my Midwestern diet. I became skilled at hiding most of my meal in my napkin or sneaking it into the dog's bowl or just dumping it in the trash when no one was looking. My parents, however, were determined not to let me starve myself: I was not allowed to leave the table until I finished my dinner, but generally I was not interested in consuming the food on my plate. So nearly every night turned into a battle of wills. I refused to eat; they refused to let me leave the kitchen. Then came bedtime, and someone had to surrender.

Not every night turned into a mealtime stand-off. Every so often, as the sun set during the grey Indiana winter, Mom pulled the electric skillet out of the cabinet, and we knew we were having pancakes. Pancakes for dinner! Are there any more welcome words that one can hear?

A rare and celebrated treat during childhood, breakfast for dinner is a staple of my adult life. Sometimes I pull out the griddle for pancakes or french toast. Sometimes I scramble some eggs or make an omelet. On other evenings, I'll make biscuits with veggie sausage or fake bacon. Last night I had Golden Grahams. Occasionally, me even have a soft-boiled cookie, with a glass of cookie juice on the side.