Pancakes

A burn on my hand sings in hot pain. The skin has already become a pale pink and shines a bit more than the rest. Pancakes. A burn for pancakes. Seems like a fair trade to me. I whisk together more of the mixture and water, scraping at the bottom of the bowl. When the off-white liquid becomes the same viscosity of glue, I pour it on the griddle. Steam rises and sizzles as the pancake cooks. I quickly add chocolate chips to the top and they sink a bit into the already thickening liquid.

My grandmother says I eat too much food because it’s the only thing in my life that I can control. That the amount of food I allow into my body is the one thing that only I can change. She’s right, but I’ll never tell her that. I don’t eat lunch or dinner or breakfast. Instead, I graze throughout the day. Sometimes, when I’m bored, I eat so much my stomach aches. Other days I don’t eat anything at all. I like to tell myself that I have control in other aspects like my emotions. That I can control the way my surroundings affect me, but we all know that’s far from the truth. My brain feels like a  snow globe. Small, glittering flakes whirl around a tiny, glass container. Than, they settle on the bottom until someone comes back to shake up the globe again. They are dependent on everything, but me.

The edges of the pancakes change from shiny to matte. I pick up the black spatula and flip them. The surface of the almost-perfect circle is a delicious golden brown. I allow the pancake to bake a bit more and remove it from the black, hot surface. Waiting for the pancake to cool is hardest part, so I usually skip it. I eat the one that isn’t going to completely burn my tongue first. Almost-molten chocolate coats the roof of my mouth as I enjoy the pancake.

e.r.b

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