Well, we went out to breakfast this morning, as directed by The New York Times, to a little restaurant called Tupelo Junction. This place has been avoided by us for a year and a half because of its trying-too-hard-to-be-a-Southern-roadside-shack concept. In actuality it was really, really good, if you don't mind paying $40 for breakfast, which I do. I do mind paying $9 for a half-order of French toast that mostly ends up on the floor under my child's high chair (oh, but the real whipped cream was a nice touch, thanks).
See? I can complain unceasingly about Santa Barbara until the day I die! How fun for everyone around me. Jack, of course, loves it here. This is a picture he painted of the appallingly beautiful view from our bed. Pretty good for a guy from New York.