Don’t Let Your Stomach Be Your Guide.

Don’t let your stomach be your guide…unless it has Siri-like capabilities to lead you to the closest brunch spot. In that case, let it be your guru, mentor, and overall weekend morning stalker. Just don’t abandon your actual mentors, friends, spouses, and guides in pursuit  of said brunch.

When I was a child, I often would get excited about camp food. The kind served in mess halls that was mass produced and was not always of the best quality. Then my stomach guide led me astray. Except for when it came to apple turnovers, those were definitely worth running as fast as I could up from the fishing lake to nab a spot on the dining hall bench. My siblings and I smuggled a small truckload in our various pockets to eat on the way home. I’d like to say that it was in that moment our devotion to apple products started. Little did we know iPhones were coming.

With iPhones, you can take pictures of apple turnovers. And brunch. But please, instagrammers stop taking pictures of your brunch. It makes me insanely hungry. Even after I’ve finished eating an entire plate of chicken curry. French toast and hollandaise sauce cropped into a perfect square make me question my entire existence. Did it even matter that I fried eggs that morning? When would I ever go out for breakfast? If a brunch plate falls in the middle of the forest does anyone hear it? Ah, so many questions…


Also, if you’re ever in Bellingham, WA here are a few of my husband and I’s favorite brunch places:

OverEasy: Order the Wolfstack if you’re feeling insanely hungry and like potatoes, eggs, and bacon layered on top of each other. Also, the name of the restaurant is a pun! You kind of feel like you stepped inside an egg that really wants to be a 50’s diner close to the sun (Visit, you’ll understand).

Harris Avenue Cafe: Sit outside if the weather is nice and count the number of man buns you see (my husband and I’s current record is 3). Order the Matterhorn scramble. Or any scramble.

Homeskillet: Strong on flavor and personality. Order a skillet of cinnamon roll french toast and then take your picture with the giant concrete chicken in front. Also, you could write an entire anthropological study on the look, feel, and culture of this quirky neighborhood spot.


Brunch with my husband and Dad at HomeSkillet. Poor chicken looks terrified. Will you eat me next??

Anyways, this blog post is dedicated to my Dad, who kept me from running across the countryside in pursuit of delicious food instead of growing up into a proper adult. Thank you

Cheers! (And may you dream of large chickens).


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