Batter's Practice

My Father pancaked
on Sunday mornings
with a deft arm and the sizzle of
electric skillet madness.
He made perfect
circles as if he was cutting them forth
from his scroll saw.

Years of mixes and recipes
skillet, eggs and oils
I have tried to duplicate
the pancakes from my childhood dreams.
Stopping short
in my quest
only to
find sometimes the
dog would even frown.

So in the quiet of the evening alone
I crack eggs and sizzle the water
To check my pan
in search of nirvana.
Measuring my moment
I find big fat
fluffy clouds of batter
bubbling and tops drying to
The heat drifting off the pan
- to be flipped perfectly.
Oh… if it was only Sunday morning
and if I had the children to
fight over the butter and honey
we would have
perfected the complete
circle again.

 

 

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