Cravings

Over the past month or so, my pregnant wife has metamorphosed into a pancake monster. Every Sunday morning, we drive down the hill and into town for breakfast. I drink a lot of coffee and usually order something involving sausages and bacon and ketchup. I'm fairly flexible. But if Emeline doesn't get some pancakes, and quickly, someone is going to lose a finger. At least she's not eating coal or raw steak like some pregnant women. If her pancakes were served with coal or raw steak, she'd probably still eat them though. In fact, she might not even notice.

This Sunday: a steaming hot shortstack of blueberry pancakes, served with yogurt, standing in a pool of syrup.

At this rate, we might call our first child Pancake. (ck)