I would let the maple syrup and honey goo climb up my skin, I’d sit back into it, I’d roll around in it, I’d wade in it with my rainboots. I’d dip each of my tiny little fingers into the golden vat of sticky and lick them clean. My mother wouldn’t like this behavior too much.
Saturdays were always pancake days. The days I didn’t have a morning game, I’d awake to smells of cinnamon, clove, sugar and dough. Most Saturdays I lied in bed for a few minutes after waking up, listening to the clinking of the stirring spoon against the cool glass bowl, the sound of the pan as it hit the metal of the stove, the clicking of the stove as it turned on, and that first simmer of the dollop of butter as it evaporated onto the pan.
I’d find my seat at the table, already set with a glass of cold milk which always tased like a cool creamy respite from the sweetness of the pancake.