Before Eden woke up, Jen whipped up pancakes from scratch. She put berries and slivered almonds on top and warmed up real maple syrup. When it was ready, she carried a cup of aromatic hot coffee into the bedroom. The coffee did its magic and Eden stirred.

“I made breakfast,” Jen said. “Pancakes.”

“Oh,” Eden yawned. “I can’t handle gluten. But you’re really sweet.”

Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “pancakes.”

Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

3 thoughts on “Pancakes”

  1. Hmmmmm…March 25th of this year the local farms with gnarly maple trees were holding their special promotions to sell their fresh maple syrup. It was a good year for sap running with plenty of snow cover in Maine. She bet her husband could win first prize if there ever were a pancake contest. He prepared the fluffiest, golden brown from scratch pancakes at least once a month. Each year they made sure that they went to one of the farms in early Spring to buy a year’s worth of delicious sweet amber maple syrup. How anyone in their right mind could drink that slop that’s sold in the supermarkets with preservatives? Until you’ve eaten homemade light as a feather pancakes dripping with melted unsalted butter and topped with luscious maple syrup just tapped from those old trees, you’ve never had a good pancake. I defy you to argue that. When they lived in Vermont the sugarhouses always served a scoop of ice cream with the maple syrup topping it. Years ago when they bought an old 1790’s colonial in a small Vermont village it had an ell that had been an old sugarhouse from a field across from the main house. There had been a fire in the west wing and they moved the old sugarhouse to replace the ell which had been destroyed. They enjoyed renting out their “Sugarhouse Suite” to guests venturing up to Vermont. Many times they invited guests to the main house for their special Sunday pancakes and maple syrup breakfast. We still have our old guest books with comments.

  2. The Army’s Mountain Ranger Camp in Dahlonega, Georgia was the definition of austere. It was a bleak place to teach hard men the skills of mountain warfare. Nothing more. It’s sole redeeming quality was the Spartan chow hall that served massive blueberry pancakes to famished students on their final day in camp. By wicked design, there was no time to savor these gifts from Heaven. Buses to Ranger School’s next phase were waiting. So they were unceremoniously shoved into gaping mouths, chased down by cartons of milk, and the students were on their way.

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