On Saturday mornings after my pilates are done, I wait patiently until the kids disperse to satisfy their interests in some outer reach of our home. When they have suitably, and happily holed themselves up somewhere else, I begin my Saturday morning ritual. I dim the kitchen lights to a restful glow, and get out my favorite plate and cup with the seemingly Morrocan design. I cook up just two chocolate chip pancakes (whole wheat, of course, and from scratch) and brew up some bold, bold, roasty beyond roasty decaf coffee. I break out the sweet flavored creamer (this is key) and rummage through my magazines to find my Anthropologie catalogs. Then I sit at the table in the quiet (or sometimes I put the french station or Norah Jones on my Pandora) and drop a dollop of sweet syrup onto the side of my plate and then drip another swirl of honey inside the pool of syrup. I use my fork to entwine them. I take a bit of butter on the end of the knife and rub it over and into the crevices of each pancake, letting it stand in slices, or drift and melt as it pleases. I take one small savory piece of pancake at a time (very small so as to enjoy it longer and in more installments) and dip it methodically into the honey/ syrup mixture. I am sure to hold them in my mouth and press them against my tastebuds, feeling all the delicate flavors combine (honey, maple, chocolate, the cinnamon and nutmeg I dash in, the nutty wheat, the gritty cornmeal...) one by one, and together like a connoisseur of fine drink would with his newest favorite rich, red wine. A slow swallow of coffee here and there: a perfect companion. The exotic, carefully, and delicately adorned wares on the pages before me...they inspire me on what to make next for my shop. Just looking at them is satisfying. There is something so delightful and important to the soul about things made well...with time, with detail, with inspiration...and with pleasure.
On Saturday mornings after my pilates are done, I wait patiently until the kids disperse to satisfy their interests in some outer reach of our home. When they have suitably, and happily holed themselves up somewhere else, I begin my Saturday morning ritual. I dim the kitchen lights to a restful glow, and get out my favorite plate and cup with the seemingly Morrocan design. I cook up just two chocolate chip pancakes (whole wheat, of course, and from scratch) and brew up some bold, bold, roasty beyond roasty decaf coffee. I break out the sweet flavored creamer (this is key) and rummage through my magazines to find my Anthropologie catalogs. Then I sit at the table in the quiet (or sometimes I put the french station or Norah Jones on my Pandora) and drop a dollop of sweet syrup onto the side of my plate and then drip another swirl of honey inside the pool of syrup. I use my fork to entwine them. I take a bit of butter on the end of the knife and rub it over and into the crevices of each pancake, letting it stand in slices, or drift and melt as it pleases. I take one small savory piece of pancake at a time (very small so as to enjoy it longer and in more installments) and dip it methodically into the honey/ syrup mixture. I am sure to hold them in my mouth and press them against my tastebuds, feeling all the delicate flavors combine (honey, maple, chocolate, the cinnamon and nutmeg I dash in, the nutty wheat, the gritty cornmeal...) one by one, and together like a connoisseur of fine drink would with his newest favorite rich, red wine. A slow swallow of coffee here and there: a perfect companion. The exotic, carefully, and delicately adorned wares on the pages before me...they inspire me on what to make next for my shop. Just looking at them is satisfying. There is something so delightful and important to the soul about things made well...with time, with detail, with inspiration...and with pleasure.
I loved this post. Yum.
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