In today's Rachel Ray, food network, boutique supermarket world, a new subspecies has evolved, known affectionately (or not) as the Foodie. I, personally, bear no ill will towards these children of the mini-corns and arugala. In fact, more often than not, I find their devotion to their gourmet olive oils almost adorable, kind of like 5-year-olds and their obsessive attachments to the cartoon character of their choice. Barney or Elmo; extra virgin or extra, extra virgin. Same strange mental gymnastics, in my book.

I, on the other hand, am cut from a much simpler culinary cloth. Keep your croissants, I want a bicuit. Forego the omlette, my eggs can be scrambled. And crepes? Well, they've got nothing on pancakes.

You see, I don't particularly enjoy food intended to make me think; I want food destined to make me sleepy. Hot, steamy, fat-filled, and carb laden. That's a decent meal in my book.

So, you can imagine my euphoric state after having dined at one of my favorite Austin haunts: the original Kerbey Lane.

The old green house may have a new coat of paint inside, but one bite of the pancakes, and it's just like coming home. I think I may have gained back a least 1 of the pounds I lost last week, and the gingerbread I got wrapped up for breakfast tomorrow morning will probably put back another.

Until then, I'm struggling to keep my eyes open, fighting the impending carb-coma just long enough to get in my post for the day. More on the dinner later, I'm sure, but for now, I want nothing more than to doze off dreaming of real maple syrup and honest-to-god butter, dripping off buttermilk perfection.