The blue corn pancake mix had been nesting atop of my fridge since Christmas. It was re-gifted, or shall I say lovingly passed down to me by a former colleague and now friend. She typically mines her gifts from the unsold antiques items from shows past; unused bottles of wine, or state representational foods that have gone unused from her kitchen. She is careful in her giving and is sly in her execution when giving it to you as you walk out the door after an evening of holiday gluttony. It isn’t until you get home and realize her craft.
My son, who is persistent and addicted to novelty has been asking if we could make pancakes as he stirs his own imaginary batter and hands me a plate of invisible blueberry pancakes. This morning I made it happen, making his wildest culinary dreams come true. We cracked, poured, and whisked ingredients into a grey-blue paste and slopped them onto a griddle. Their puffy, fluffiness came right on cue in that child palm size pancake. My son, made sure that butter and syrup would be part of the assembly and that he would simultaneously experience that full-on blood sugar spiking, carbohydrate coma inducing explosion. For a kid who rarely chews, he ate that pancake – mashing it into his fork and soaking up the maple-butter concoction, stuffing into his sticky mouth.
I sat down with him, with my stack barely able to contain itself with cascading streams of butter and sweet, sweet, gooey maple-osity. I will let her come visit my house any time.