Sunday Mornings.

Mr. How Sweet bounds up the stairs at 7 am and starts jumping on the bed. He’s been up since 6 am because he’s getting old, and I’ve been up since 6 am because I’m getting old, he’s about as quiet as a bull in a china shop, and he blasts Dolly Parton videos on CMT every Sunday morning.

He’s already making pancakes, even though he’s had his first breakfast. But he can’t go another hour without eating. Pancakes are the last thing on my mind since I consumed nearly an entire jar of salted caramel last night before bed.


However, after one look I’m sold.

I can’t ever turn down a chocolate chip pancake.


Somewhere in the hustle and bustle, this has became a tradition. Why can’t someone cook for me everyday?