I want pancakes

I've never been very good at making decisions. I'm too dang thoughtful. If I'm the one to decide where a group of friends should eat, I will run a mental checklist that goes something like this:

* Angela doesn't like ketchup on her hamburgers, so we can't go somewhere that automatically puts ketchup on hamburgers.

* JW isn't much for Asian fare, but...

* Michelle is vegan and Oriental is a good bet for her.

* Brittany keeps suggesting Mexican.

* I like Mexican. It's my favorite. I could really go for a saucy, spicy enchilada--

* Oh, but wait, Kristina has been having trouble with her gall bladder. Spicy is out.

"Oh, okay guys, I've got it," I'll finally say. "How about pizza?"

And when there's a collective groan, I will run the people-pleasing checklist through my head again. We will eventually end up at a steak joint. Problem is...I don't really like steak. 

This problem isn't just about pleasing people, either. I will run the same gamut deciding what to eat for breakfast. It's a complicated choice, you know, what with toast and bagels and eggs and cereal and oatmeal and pancakes all vying for my love and attention. And when you add the complication of projecting into the rest of my day to determine what my other meals will be and how breakfast should balance out those choices and launch me into the day on the right food foot... 

Let's just say I end up standing in the middle of the kitchen and staring at nothing a lot. Or, if it's really bad, I will stand with the refrigerator door open. And that, dear friends, is a cardinal sin in my family.

But this morning was different. Gloriously different. I woke up before my alarm went off, and before my feet even hit the floor, I knew exactly how I wanted to start my day:
* With one giant chocolate chip pancake.
* Served on my bright green plate.
* Topped with whipped cream.
* Accompanied by a steaming French press of Zimbabwe coffee.
* Eaten while watching the sun rise red and orange over the Swan Mountains outside my window.

Ohhhh, I savor the memory even now as I write this post.

And that, dear friends, calls to mind another decision I made recently.

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to live overseas. For as long as I can remember, I've known that God placed a love of other cultures and languages and peoples deep in my heart. That love has led to my insatiable thirst for wandering and exploring. But lately, I've been feeling God's nudge to RUN after this love and to immerse myself in it.

So, I'm running. I'm moving home to save as much money as I can in the next half-year or so. I'm enrolling in a course to get certified in teaching English as a second language. And then, come fall, I hope to be....wherever it is God wants me to be. That detail has yet to be worked out.

The point is: I know what I want.

I want pancakes.

Bakery babes

There's buns. And there's an oven. But none of my fine co-workers currently have buns in their oven. 

That really made no sense.

What I meant to say was: Ceres Bakery serves up incredible pastries, breads, and coffee drinks. I've enjoyed being part of such a great group of folks. I will miss the smell of warm bread and hot sweet potato buns coming out of the oven. I will miss listening to NPR at 6 a.m. I will miss all the conversations--both silly and serious--with Erin, Hannah, Liv, Heather, Melissa, Megan, Bente, and Sarah.

I will most definitely miss free coffee and day-old pastries.

But, it's time to move on. From this job, and quite possibly, from this town. I'm not sure about the timing on that last statement, but I know it's coming. I'm feeling the nudge to go. And that is never a nudge I grudge.

Smudge.

Fudge.

Judge.

Pudg--y. Always a danger when you work at a bakery. (And the truth behind my leaving comes out...)