Brunching

While I have no definitive proof, I believe that coffee and creativity are not actually separate entities. My brain does not function on a creative level until I’ve partaken in my morning cup my morning pot (of coffee, that is). I feel justified in my overindulgence of the little roasted bean for many reasons, medical research not being the least of these.

Because I can’t fathom pre-coffee creativity, my morning meals at home typically look something like this:

Breakfast of (un-caffinated) champions.

The thought of concocting a remotely inspired breakfast dish is incomprehensible.

For that reason, brunch is my favorite meal to go out to eat for. I would say my favorite meal out was breakfast, but I can’t shake the voice of my dad in my head (hi, Dad!), so I still think the term “breakfast” somehow translates, “early”. And I’m sure that, with the exception of my dad, we all agree that “early” could be translated, “gross”. Early party leavers. Or even worse–early party arrivers. Early periods. Early bills. Early mornings.

One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned this year is to celebrate the gifts that I have been given as a result of a life I wasn’t expecting. One of those unexpected gifts is the chance to sleep in every other Saturday morning. On the rare occasion that I am in town, plan-free, and still have money left in the adventure line of my budget, I enjoy spending those mornings (errr…middays) brunching.

Although my nature is such that I would rarely choose the “tried and true” over a new adventure, there is something inside me (or a friend beside me), that convinces me on those lazy Saturdays to keep going back to Frank’s Diner.

Perhaps it’s the fuzzy feeling I get driving through the streets of Kenosha, Wisconsin realizing how far away from Chicago I must be, as it’s more difficult to find the tiny diner than it is to find parking.

I originally took this picture standing directly across the street from the diner, but you couldn’t see the diner behind that massive minivan, so I had to move to the side.

Or perhaps it’s the history of the place; the diner is actually an old train car that was hauled into it’s current location by six horses in 1926. I mean, how many diners boast a story like that?

It could also be the comfort of knowing the owners are also the chefs. And they cook your food right in front of you.

The owners/chefs/entertainers/sisters/servers/magicians of Franks.

Or maybe it’s the health-consious-grease-free-garden-fresh goodness I get when I order the “Garbage Plate”. (The toasted homemade bread may strengthen their case, too.)

Garbage, I tell you.

But it’s probably safe to say that the most convincing argument for driving over an hour to eat at a hole-in-the-wall diner in Kenosha, Wisconsin, is the company I have while eating there (okay, the company and those mighty mimosas).

Kenosha. Company. Coffee. (Creativity ensues.) What inspires your creativity?

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