This morning Leisel and I woke up and made pancakes. Not just any pancakes. Aretha Frankenstein pancakes. You’d have to drive to Chattanooga, wait for 40 minutes outside a creepy looking Halloween-esque shack, and then sit down in front of one of their massive biscuits or pancakes to truly understand, but Aretha Frankenstein pancakes are out of this world. Thank heavens they sell their mix so we don’t feel compelled to drive the 2+ hours just to get our fix. Helga was out of town this weekend, but Leisel and I still made the most of our Sunday morning. We donned our super-cute, seldom-used Anthropologie aprons, whipped out some spatulas and pancake batter, and turned on Meredith Brooks’ infamously bitchy song at full blast.

There might have been some dancing. Maybe a little air guitar.
Sometimes it’s just necessary.

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