The Cottage

I would be remiss if I didn't write about this quaint, little place.

The Cottage.

It was right down the street from our hotel. Every morning we would walk past small art galleries and garden cafés, often while holding hands. I don't know what it is about Laguna, but it makes a person all mushy.

It's a nice side effect.

Hee, hee. We are on a *real* vacation. Just the two of us.

Pinch me.

We always ate outside.

I'd sip my hot tea.

We would marvel at the weather and the surrounding beauty.

The Mr. would tell me of his younger days.

He once lived in Laguna. He was a drummer in a band, rode mountain bikes, and made snowboards. He was livin' the life.

Except he had little money and no serious girlfriend.

I ordered the same thing each morning: the Baja Omelet.

It was stuffed with fresh salsa, cilantro, avocado, and cheese.

An attempt to recreate this will be made in my kitchen. Guaranteed.

Oh, but that's not the end of the yum-session.

These are cottage fries.

They are perfect. Absolutely perfect.

I have a rule that I only eat french fries once a year. I broke that rule. I broke it into a million pieces by eating these each and every morning.

Calories, shmalories.

I've considered framing this picture.

The Mr. and I would also share an order of blueberry buckwheat pancakes.

Again, these pancakes are divine. The best I've **ever** had. Ever.

I have buckwheat flour, but fear that my efforts will be futile.

But I'm still going to try.

Lest you think us a couple of gluttons, I assure you that those plates were not left clean.

We savored all we could.

I'd finish another cup of tea.

We'd walk together across the street, down to the shore.

The Mr. shared something else: Laguna was much better this time around.

Sweet.