Making Pancakes

It’s Friday morning, late. I’m making pancakes. It seemed like a good idea. I was hungry and looked at the clock. Hmmm… not yet noon, so I guess I’ll think of some kind of breakfast food my husband will eat. And that I like too.

Fixing pancakes is a good time to write. There is all that waiting time while the pancakes show bubbles before you turn them over.

I used to make a fruitless attempt to get all the pancakes ready at the same time, so they would still be warm at serving time. For years I’ve used a little gadget like Mom had. It’s a crescent shaped holding tray that clips onto my black iron skillet. Because the finished pancakes are resting patiently near the source of heat, it works pretty well. But still I hurried, aiming for more efficiency by carefully pouring as many as three pancakes into the pan. Then having them stick together in a gooey mess anyway. Kind of a metaphor for my life. Always in a hurry. Gooey messes.

But this morning I discovered I can turn the oven on WARM, pour one leisurely pancake all by itself, and write while I’m cooking. The important thing is to keep part of my mind on the temperature at the skillet and the progress of my pancake. As each pancake is done, I plop it into a stoneware dish staying warm in the oven.

My writing assignment this week — I’m in a creative writing class — is something about how to go through the process of dying. What does making pancakes have to do with dying? Remember that metaphor about life and pancakes? Living and Dying — two sides of the same coin.  It’s about taking more time with things, doing things I like to do. And keeping an eye on the temperature — my emotions — as my guide.

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