When I wake up on Sunday mornings, all too often I lay in bed and wish I could go to the Chocolate Maven for brunch. I guess I could, but it would require a four to five hour drive. I simply don't have that kind of time on football Sundays.
This past Sunday, however, the dream became a reality. As sunlight filtered through the crappy blinds in our room, I knew it was only a matter of time: today was the day I would be sipping yummy, decadent hot chocolate and eating the kind of food that monopolizes my mind on weekend mornings.
Last time my wife and I ate at the Maven for brunch, the parking lot was stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey, and we had to wait forty minutes. This time, as we made our way through the parking lot, there were spaces available. People weren't clustered outside the door. We walked in and were seated right away. I wanted to kiss the hostess.
The hot chocolate was everything I remembered. The red chile is never as spicy as I want it to be, but it's still mmm. It was divine.
The check came. I opened my wallet to produce my debit card when my driver's license picture caught my eye. I studied it. It was taken almost eight years ago. My cheeks look swollen. I was probably a good twenty pounds heavier than I am today.
I stretched my arm over the table and presented my wallet to my wife like an FBI agent presents their badge. She was looking down, so I said, "Look at my big fat face!"
With no hesitation, with no qualms whatsoever, my wife bypassed the picture in my wallet and looked me right in the face. My real time face.
My mouth fell open. I gasped like I was wearing a $10,000 gown--on loan--and had just dripped marinara sauce down the front of it.
My wife finally looked at the end of my arm to see what I meant. Of course, she didn't mean it the way it all seemed.
Brunch in Santa Fe...there's nothing fatter, I mean finer.
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