A Not So-Perfect Pancake Essay -- Personal Narrative Family Essays

Not So-Perfect Pancake The form of the pancake my commence make for me every morning was always unp ablaze(p)ictable. Sometimes, they would come out perfectly, savorless and round with sprinkles of love blended in. Other times, they would be mushy, curly-grained shapes that seemed to pile onto the plate. It was just like life, sometimes things would go as intend without any wrinkles, smooth, and other times I would need a viscous iron to get rid of the bunching wrinkles. Overall though, the pancakes symbolized my fusss loyalty to me and served as a bonding tool. Waking up at 600 was never something I enjoyed. In fact, it was more of a wrestling match between my deject clock and me. Staggering out of bed, I would somehow manage to dredge myself into the shower and progress to drying my hair and finding clothes, on a fair day they would even match. Then, I would routinely plop down onto the red and white-checkered cushion that covered my favorite stool, and eat the breakfast my mother made for me. It was always the same, a single chocolate run away pancake with pip cream on top. Why I chose a chocolate chip pancake and not something else like poached eggs with biscuits, Im not sure enough. mayhap it was because I loved how the chocolate chips would melt into the rest of the pancake adding a semi sweet taste to a normally bland breakfast, or it could be blamed on my pickiness as an eater. Once I free-base something I liked, I rarely strayed from it. More practically though, it was because my mother could groom the batter the night before making it quicker and easier to cook in the morning. During the times I was on schedule, a rarity for me in the morning, I would slowly savor each bite and talk to my half una commovened mother about little things the fight... ...help of my family and the return of my sister it was able to diversify into a perfect delectable and delicious pancake. And why did my mother wake up to make me one every morning? I per ceive her talking on the phone to my brother. Living in Alaska, there is a five-hour time change, and he called one morning expecting to leave a pass on the answering machine. Instead he got my mothers dreary voice. I could grab what he was saying on the other line, Mom, why are you up so early? She replied with making Helena breakfast. He seemingly questioned the importance of that because the next words out of her mouth were if I charter to sacrifice an hour and a half of sleep to make sure she eats and starts the day off right then I forget. It had been five years since I overcame my eating disorder and still my mother proved to me that she never breaks her promises.