The gentle bubbling hiss as the smooth, satin batter slipped into the pan was a satisfying sound. I scattered some blueberries on top as the bottom began to cook and turn golden brown and spongey…these weren’t those thin pancakes like we used to flip onto the ceiling as kids on shrove Tuesday, the kind you have with lemon and sugar or jam and cream. These are fat, juicy, sexy American-style pancakes, the kind you stack with butter and smother in syrup.
He doesn’t need to know that I spent all of Thursday night practising how to make them without them being burnt on the outside and raw eggy goo on the inside. This morning at least they’re turning out perfectly and I’ve already got a sizeable stack building up on a plate beside the cooker. I’m hoping the smell and the soft sounds of the radio and the sizzle of batter will wake him, and he’ll come through, in his boxers, hair tousled, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and plonk himself down at the kitchen table, watching my backside peep at him from beneath his crumpled white shirt as I cook him the best breakfast of his life.
As it is though, I hear no sounds of movement as I’m spooning butter and syrup, and if I wait any longer they’ll get cold. I put the tray on the plate along with a coffee and a glass of fresh, squeezed orange juice, and suppress a smile as I sneak into the bedroom.
My face falls a little as I find him, wide awake, on his phone texting away.
‘Honey, I’ve made breakfast.’ I say tentatively. He glances up at me for a brief moment, barely registering my presence.
‘Oh, sweet. Yeah just put it on the side, I’m having a conversation.’
What were your prompts?: Pancakes, Sun