The smell of pancakes always says to me, “everything is going to be all right, you are safe. Pancakes can be trusted, like the old lady next door who knows all the comings and goings yet simultaneously minds her own business.”
My children love Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup on their pile of pancakes because she is a character from my childhood table. They want to look into the mirrors inside the mirrors inside the mirrors of their DNA, stacked and stretched across the centuries from one table to the next to the next.
