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.
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.
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.