Enter: Buckwheat Pancakes

No more for us the morning mush,

The sawdust or baled hay;

No more the bacon and the egg

     Of some long, bygone day.

No more the patent shred or flake

     Will be our morning fate,

The frost is on the pumpkin now,

     The buckwheat on the plate.

Each season brings its crowning joy,

     Spring, summer, winter fall,

But winter, with its morning feast,

     Just beats ‘em, one and all.

Back to the pines with toast and hash,

     They’re lame, and out of date;

The frost is on the pumpkin now,

     The buckwheat’s on the plate.

Nov. 22, ‘09