Backyard brunch

The sky seems a brighter shade of blue and the sun seems to shine more intensely in the East Bay. I made my second journey in a week over the Bridge Sunday morning for brunch at Colin’s house in Oakland. I had shown up early, and Colin was still in a towel trying not to slit himself as he shaved with a scary-looking blade. Adam, his roommate, offered me tea, and I joined him and Rachel outside, finding my way along a hidden brick path, dodging weeds, and finally reaching the sitting area, complete with a hammock, three precarious chairs, and two cinder blocks with a block of wood as a seat (I think the latter was the safest sitting spot).

When Eleanor arrived after a little delay that left us wondering whether or not she and Colin had gotten attacked by a group of Sunday morning church-goers, we cheered. She brought with her a plate of banana bread and lemon scones from Bakesale Betty. We placed the dish on the cinder block next to the dish of chopped Manila mangoes, strawberries, and oranges. The banana bread was moist, just sweet enough, and smelled fragrantly of banana. And, the buttery flakiness of the scones was complimented well with the crispness of the edges and the sugar topping. The fruit was delicious. The mango tasted like Hawaii on my tongue, and the oranges and strawberries were juicy and sweet.

As Adam, Rachel, Toby, Carlo, and I sat out back and ate, Eleanor and Colin were inside cooking up oatmeal pancakes. As if the fruit and Bakesale Betty baked goods weren’t good enough, Eleanor was mixing up a fresh batch of oatmeal pancakes with which to stuff us silly. We laid a couple of sheets out on the cement patio for a makeshift dining area, spread out plates and utensils, and awaited the glorious pancakes. They came out one by one and were offered around until everyone had had one. The pancakes were moist and dense with a slight crunch of the oatmeal. Each little brown round felt like eating a large bowl of oatmeal. After one, I was stuffed but was able to squeeze in half of one more.

We sat around on the blanket-covered cement rubbing our bellies in a pancake induced stupor as we listened to the bird squawk up in the tree. I left Oakland that day stuffed with oats and glowing with a slight bronzing of the skin that dubiously would have happened on the other side of the Bay.