Glug, glug slosh
Viscous buttermilk slides out
From its jug
To drape into the confines of a temporary vessel,
Rendering transparent Pyrex opaque.
Into the measuring cup goes
Two eggs, swirled into homogeneity with a slim whisk,
A covetous dose of vanilla bean paste and
What remains of the melted butter --
That which did not explode and coat the
Interior of the sighing microwave.
Whirling this concoction to a
Golden creamy slurry
Now pour, drip, splat
Into a concave field of flour
Leavening agents, and
Rosy mineral
Carved from the Himalayas.
Disparate substances
Converge to be of purpose.
Commence, the catalyst:
Baking soda hisses at contact with bright liquid
Eggs moisturize ground grains
Butter percolates throughout.
A toasty landing strip
In the form of countertop griddle
Receives heady clouds of batter which
Hydroplane atop
Sizzling streaks of grapeseed oil.
Science retires and faith enters:
Will the pasty globs rise into meltaway miracles?
Where are the bubbles - divine proof of progress?
Slowly, seams of golden butter
Seap from the surface.
A watched pot resists boiling;
A monitored pancake evades firming.
With no hurry, a first bubble
An ambivalent explorer, crests and bursts forth.
Then, millenia later, a second orb pops.
A troop of beige rounds now crisp at the edges;
Once slick tops grow matte and spongy.
Belief restored; the chef breathes.
Supple silicone slides deep
Under the hidden bottoms of each mound.
Further trust is summoned:
Will this flip or flounder?
Hypothesis tested:
First contender executes a wobbly one-eighty.
Success!
Now, another, then a third.
The black landscape fills with gold and sepia discs
With craggly circumferi and pock-marked crusts,
Yet tender, yielding to a spatula overhead.
Caught unaware by the arrival much prayed for,
Still surprising after decades of incantations and practice,
The cook cries out:
Breakfast! Run!
And there, upon plates found just in time,
Cakes escape scorching by milliseconds
Landing plumply and pliable
On outstretched porcelain.
A pat - okay three
Skate across pillowy piles.
Burnished treacle pirouettes
From its poised spoon.
And now - an offer of grace
A small blessing, this feast
In the calm space of a
Quiet Sunday.
My center will not hold;
Soon I too will be a bubble, traveling up
Emerging into a noisy world.
Until then, the holy trinity
Pancakes Syrup Butter
Cloak me in safety and peace.
Amen and blessed be.
