Butter On The First Bite

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Pancakes have always been a simple yet magical meal to me, a symbol of warmth and comfort that stretches back as far as my memory goes. When I was a little kid living at my grandparents' house with my younger brother, pancakes were more than breakfast—they were an event. The anticipation would start the moment we smelled the griddle heating up, filling the kitchen with the sweet aroma of sugar and flour. My brother and I would sit at the table, perched on the edges of our chairs, practically vibrating with excitement.

When our grandmother finally placed the plates in front of us, they were perfect—golden pancakes draped in syrup, with that one glossy spot of melted butter pooling in the center. That buttery spot was sacred, the best part, and I always ate it first. My brother did too, like it was an unspoken rule between us.

I can still hear my grandfather chuckling from his seat behind us. "Look at that, Gerri," he said, his voice full of amusement. "They go right for the butter." His smile stretched wide, and he folded his arms across his chest, shaking his head in a way that was both knowing and affectionate. Of course I ate that bite first, it's the best part.


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