I never head to the Lost Dog Cafe for breakfast unless it’s a special occasion: a visit from out-of-town family, say; or the week of our anniversary; or a Thursday. I’m not particular about it. (I might go there to celebrate when I finish writing this.) Part of my excitement, I guess, comes from being an expat Midwesterner transplanted to the coast near Folly Beach, South Carolina, just south of Charleston: On the ! Part is the expectation that once I’m fed and caffeinated, adventure may follow: a boat ride with friends, or a
