A story about pancakes

My great-grandmother made the best pancakes. She would explain to me and everyone else why they were the best; they were super thin but never fell apart, and the taste was of course perfect.

Few people master this art. They are either too thick or so thin they make a mess when you flip them. So there was really no doubt of the fact that hers were the best. If anyone would dare criticize said pancakes, she would hit them with the spatula and possible stomp on their foot.

Us kids would never complain. I mean, pancakes. I could eat them with just sugar. A layer of sugar, roll it, cut it into small slices. Swallow with a cup of coffee. Yes, I started drinking coffee when I was five years old*.

Another thing she repeated was that you always had to throw away the first pancake. The idea was that when you make pancakes, the first one is going to suck. Something about butter and frying pans and whatnot, I don’t know, cooking is boring to me, so I don’t pay much attention to the details.

For me, this was perfect. In the eyes of a seven-year-old, an ugly pancake is still a pancake, and thus must be consumed. Preferably by me. Sugar not needed. So when she made the first ugly pancake, I stood there, ready to sacrifice myself for the unwanted piece of heaven. 

I could try to make this into a clever metaphor about how you need to eat some crappy pancakes before you get it right and that's part of life. Or, I could settle for it's late, I'm hungry, and I just really wanted to talk about pancakes.


*It was two parts cream, two parts sugar and one part actual coffee. But still. Oh god, I just realized what an insane amount of sugar I consumed as a kid.