What do you know -- Margy and I suddenly found ourselves way down near the edge of the world. That is, in Cape May. We had a great late breakfast at a big, bustling place called the Mad Batter.
Does that name refer to the makings of pancakes, or to Barry Bonds?
I guess it's pancakes, because Margy's buttermilk blueberry jobbies were incredible. I don't see how she ever could have finished them, even with my help, but they struck quite an impressive pose.
On the left of the pancakes is Margy's... uh... scrapple. I kind of didn't want to admit that. I don't think I'll let her order it again. (Though I'm sure the Batter's version was quite good, if you like that sort of thing.)
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