If all the sweetness in this home were a dish, it would be a tall stack of pancakes with golden syrup and nature's berries cascading from the top.
The pancakes were the start of our rest days, those precious days we soaked in the joy of being alive, of being together. As we ate them it was as if they were our superpower, a super fuel for super heroes, because that's what we were the other four days.
The pancakes were so Charlie Brown, and we sounded much the same as his teacher when our mouths were happily crammed with soft crumb.
Five days each week I watched what I ate and did exercise, but the other two were for pancakes, syrup and the comfort of fullness.
The pancakes were the sort that had graced the hearths of so many homes in these parts: puffed, browned and heavenly sweet.
Those pancakes were the taste of home, of the valleys of long ago, with their buttermilk and eggs.
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