Once, in summer
in the blueberries,
I fell asleep, and woke…*
I craved the tartness of Spring blueberries tucked thickly into the sweetness of moist, little morning cakes. The type of cakes, cooked in a skillet or on a griddle, that are the object of my most delicious love-hate relationship. I love eating the sweet, golden cakes, and I detest the laborious process of cooking them. More specifically, I hate my unsatisfactory attempts at flipping the thin, humble cakes.
The act of flipping pancakes is my nemesis. It revels in provoking my anxiety and, like a pig in mud, gleefully wallows in my shame and defeat. The art of flipping pancakes has no use for my trepidation, and it destroys me every time.
This morning, I poured my pancake batter into a cast iron pan, briefly flirted with my stovetop and then, defiantly, slid the heavy pan into the oven. The results left me full and triumphant. My victory was sweet; my reward was much sweeter.
* from Picking Blueberries, Austerlitz, New York,1957 by Mary Oliver