When I was a kid, I never really liked pancakes. The worst part was that pancakes seemed to be prepared almost exclusively for special mornings. Which meant those special occasions were always tarnished by (ugh) pancakes. And other breakfast options were in short supply.

I didn’t hate them. They didn’t make me gag. But I did have to just grimace and choke them down. This seemed to happen most often at sleepovers, when a friend’s mom would wake us up with the offer of fresh pancakes. My friend would be excited, and I would force a smile.

Blueberry pancakes. Chiara reading Sunday paper in the background.

This morning a long-dormant switch flipped. We had fresh blueberry pancakes. Homemade by Chiara. She even made homemade syrup. I know. Homemade syrup.

And we split up the Sunday Times. Munched away happily, in companionable silence. As a bonus, my oft-non-functioning milk frother worked, so I had a fresh cappucino. Chiara had mint tea.

We listened to the Blur live CD that came as a plastic-wrapped supplement with the pile of inserts, magazines, catalogues and opinion. Pretty good album. Great morning.

My only regret is that I didn’t see the value of pancakes until now. But now I get it.

I’ve got a lot of wasted past pancakes to make up for.