In our house pancakes are a treat.
They are Friday’s breakfast if we get up early enough, because that’s the day we don’t have to go to Breakfast Club.
They are the reward for tidying your bedroom on a Saturday morning.
They take time to make – the measuring (or in my case guessing until it feels right) of ingredients, the standing time, the heating of the pan to ‘just right’, the standing over the stove watching for the right moment to flip each little morsel and judging when they are perfect for stacking.
They are a labour of love.
So when I turned a pancake and saw this heart I felt that the love I put in had a physical form.
They were tasty too.