Most Sunday mornings, we're in the kitchen together contriving pancakes. I'm pulling flours and salt and baking powder out of our pantry, Patrick is rummaging in the fridge for a couple of eggs, some milk, and butter. When it comes to the cooking and the flipping of said pancakes, though, it's all him. I stand back at an appreciative distance and watch the man in action.
He does pancakes with the same macho fervor a more carnivorous man might apply to the barbecue. This past weekend, it was attended with just a touch of Hemingway-esque bravado.
Patrick was on the last of the batter, pouring it into a single, giant pancake. We were cozied with our tea cups and the sharing of Saturday-night anecdotes, (a busy night at the cafe for me, a debaucherous party for him) enjoying each other and anticipating breakfast. The he paused, mid-sizzle.
"Hey, watch this."
I watched he raised the frying pan, and the perfect, goldened orb soared into the air, narrowly missing the pot rack...executed a perfect batter-y arabesque... and made landfall in a slimy mess on our stovetop.
Behold gravity, a mighty foe indeed.