I’ve never been to a pancake house in the Great Smoky Mountains. That is, until today. 

It’s always been a dream of mine to go to one, with their cabin facades, bear mascots, and pancaked logos, dripping butter and syrup.

You see, my folks are not big eater-outers on vacation, unless it is Cracker Barrel, the magnum opus dining experience.

I’ve never known them to try local places on our travels. They prefer tried and true establishments.

They’re also mindfully frugal. Either that, or we’re just snack people.

We always carried an entire convenience store with us on our trips. We’d be not even five miles down the road, and we’d have already dug like rats into the cheese and crackers.

So here I am, my home training coming through, having packed sausage balls, banana muffins, and three kinds of crackers, among other assorted fare, on our short getaway to the mountains. We will not starve.

But last night, I was reminded of my lifelong wish when I saw those glowing stacks of buttered heaven illuminated up and down the main drag of town.

Plus, Sweet Husband likes to eat out. He says he’s never been to one of these fine establishments either. 

So we venture forth. It’s as if we’ve been on the Appalachian Trail for days, and we are famished, weary hikers, ready for a meal in proper civilization.

We find a suitable local place, with all the requirements: fake log exterior, flashing neon “open” sign with plastic baby bears climbing the poles, and a crowded parking lot.

It’s not that long before we have a table of our own, and only a few more minutes before we are digging into our flapjacks.

While we wait, I notice people. 

At the table to the left sits a man who has made a two-inch hole in the very middle of his stack. He’s filled the hole full of maple syrup, and he proceeds to, as we would say in Appalachia, “waller out” his stack, eating from the middle to the edges, which he leaves like the untouched crusts of a five-year-old’s PB&J.

At the same table is a boy who is relishing peanut butter and banana pancakes, topped with a perfect spire of whipped cream. He eats the top two pancakes and leaves the bottom two. They appear to be plain and tough.

At a table to the right, a middle-aged couple has ordered a single pancake. They had each already eaten a full breakfast. The man covers the pancake with syrup, swirling and circling until he deems it complete. He then carefully cuts a small piece which he feeds to his lovely lady. Then another. And another.

I hope they’ve got a heart-shaped hot tub in their room. 

Maybe all these people’s pancake dreams have come true.

I just hope mine are about to be fulfilled, but there is a seed of doubt.

When I saw the menu, my heart wanted one of the sweet and fruity selections. Strawberry or mixed berry with enough whipped cream and cream cheese drizzle to meet my sugar quota for the next week. After all, how many times would I be in a true pancake house? 

But, protein. So I order an omelet, and my pancakes come on the side topped with pecans.

My pancakes are tough.

I forget about trying the hole method, and I cut them from the outside so as not to disturb the pecan topping in the center.

I’m merely trying to be elegant and refined now. I will eat my food and enjoy it, but I’m not as satisfied as I had hoped to be.

Sweet Husband, on the other hand, fixes a hole and uses it as his personal dipping cup. The cover photo demonstrates his meticulous method for enjoying his pancakes. He eats from the outside in and does not run short of fresh syrup to doctor each bite.

I am a little jealous and let down.

One of the members of my own party is enjoying the strawberries and cream pancakes.

I take a bite of hers.

I’d like to jump in the middle of them and wallow like a pig, eating my way clear to the outside. 

But protein works. It is now the middle of the afternoon and I’m still full.

All I know is if I ever go to a pancake house again, I might not get the healthy choice. 

That is, if I ever go again.

My folks were right.

Cracker Barrel is better.