Sometimes, stuff just happens to you...
My Pancake Wife
A Sunday like any other,
we slipped through Franconia
and into Sugar Hill
on our first trip to Polly's Pancake Parlor,
the closest thing pancakes have to a rock concert.
This was evident by the max capacitied dining area,
alive with the fervor of long distance travelers
in for a fresh maple fix.
Suddenly, there's Meredith.
She weaves me tales of the sampler.
Of buttermilk and buckwheat
and oatmeal and cornmeal,
available plain or coconut
or blueberry or walnut,
with my choice of sausage,
ham, or cobb smoked bacon.
She slowly guided me in
to breakfast selection,
angelically prescribing: "You get six pancakes,
and you can choose three different kinds."
I order buckwheat and oatmeal and cornmeal,
all plain
to preserve the purity of the pancake experience.
I note that each waitress
makes the pancakes for her own tables,
and when Meredith returns
and places my plate in front of me
with only three pancakes on it, she says:
"I'll make the other three when you're done these,
so that your whole meal
will be hot and fresh."
That's when everything hits me at once.
My God. That's what this feeling is.
I look up to truly take her in for the first time
and see that her eyes sparkle azure
set against cream skin
and framed by her long, curly hair.
And I'm in love.
I'm suddenly alone
in this crowded dining room
where I can't see anyone but her,
not even the other four sitting at my table.
I want to ask her how common this is.
How many men have been completely overcome by her?
How many fought the urge to propose to her right there,
as I am at this very moment?
I want to ask her if she'll let me love her forever.
If she'll be my pancake wife.
If we can live in a cabin in the woods
and when we wake up each morning
if she'll ask something like "Coffee, tea, or me?",
but two of the three choices will be pancakes,
and we'll make them together,
and then make sweet love down by the griddle
as gentle as flipping one of those very pancakes,
or as sizzling as the cobb smoked bacon
I bite down onto
in an effort to cease falling madly into Meredith
and the sweet seduction of her fresh
and piping hot
breakfast presentation.
I eventually return to the table.
My body remained seated,
but I had clearly been elsewhere.
I say to my friend that when Meredith comes back,
if he wants to know where I've been,
he should look her right in the eyes.
He should look deeply and tell her "Thank you.
Thank you for this wonderful meal.
Thank you for this breakfast of pancakes
you have so lovingly provided for us
in complete selflessness,
with concern only for our bliss
in this place of pancake nirvana."
And when she does return,
and he does look her in the eyes,
and he does thank her,
he looks at me with an expression of how right I was.
I look at him and don't have to say "Back off,
because she's mine.",
as my look says all this and more.
It's all I can, as my mouth is full.
Full of the sweet cornmeal love
tenderly composed just for me
by the sweet, delicate hands of Meredith.
My pancake wife.
A Sunday like any other,
we slipped through Franconia
and into Sugar Hill
on our first trip to Polly's Pancake Parlor,
the closest thing pancakes have to a rock concert.
This was evident by the max capacitied dining area,
alive with the fervor of long distance travelers
in for a fresh maple fix.
Suddenly, there's Meredith.
She weaves me tales of the sampler.
Of buttermilk and buckwheat
and oatmeal and cornmeal,
available plain or coconut
or blueberry or walnut,
with my choice of sausage,
ham, or cobb smoked bacon.
She slowly guided me in
to breakfast selection,
angelically prescribing: "You get six pancakes,
and you can choose three different kinds."
I order buckwheat and oatmeal and cornmeal,
all plain
to preserve the purity of the pancake experience.
I note that each waitress
makes the pancakes for her own tables,
and when Meredith returns
and places my plate in front of me
with only three pancakes on it, she says:
"I'll make the other three when you're done these,
so that your whole meal
will be hot and fresh."
That's when everything hits me at once.
My God. That's what this feeling is.
I look up to truly take her in for the first time
and see that her eyes sparkle azure
set against cream skin
and framed by her long, curly hair.
And I'm in love.
I'm suddenly alone
in this crowded dining room
where I can't see anyone but her,
not even the other four sitting at my table.
I want to ask her how common this is.
How many men have been completely overcome by her?
How many fought the urge to propose to her right there,
as I am at this very moment?
I want to ask her if she'll let me love her forever.
If she'll be my pancake wife.
If we can live in a cabin in the woods
and when we wake up each morning
if she'll ask something like "Coffee, tea, or me?",
but two of the three choices will be pancakes,
and we'll make them together,
and then make sweet love down by the griddle
as gentle as flipping one of those very pancakes,
or as sizzling as the cobb smoked bacon
I bite down onto
in an effort to cease falling madly into Meredith
and the sweet seduction of her fresh
and piping hot
breakfast presentation.
I eventually return to the table.
My body remained seated,
but I had clearly been elsewhere.
I say to my friend that when Meredith comes back,
if he wants to know where I've been,
he should look her right in the eyes.
He should look deeply and tell her "Thank you.
Thank you for this wonderful meal.
Thank you for this breakfast of pancakes
you have so lovingly provided for us
in complete selflessness,
with concern only for our bliss
in this place of pancake nirvana."
And when she does return,
and he does look her in the eyes,
and he does thank her,
he looks at me with an expression of how right I was.
I look at him and don't have to say "Back off,
because she's mine.",
as my look says all this and more.
It's all I can, as my mouth is full.
Full of the sweet cornmeal love
tenderly composed just for me
by the sweet, delicate hands of Meredith.
My pancake wife.