Partial recall
The au pair girl who still can’t make pancakes is trying again this morning. Mom told us we have to eat them this time no matter what, not say anything wrong or stow them behind the rad because we keep making Theresa cry.
Yesterday Theresa told Mom that if she cries again, she’s going back home to Switzerland. And I wonder why someone would come all this way over from such a nice place to make awful pancakes for a bunch of strangers and cry in her room half the day.
This time she fills the frying pan halfway up with batter and waits until it smells a bit like burning, then she turns it over and waits again for black smoke. She cuts it in three and puts it on our plates where the middle oozes out still goo, and we mix lots of syrup in to eat it because we’re not allowed to make her cry.
And I remember the taste of warm apple juice and Arrowroot cookies that had been on the school’s radiator all through the morning.
And I remember my first taste of 80-year old wine, the unknown territory of it, and being chewed out because I made a face.
But I can’t remember the taste of my very first kiss. I only know that it was cold outside; we were six and hiding out in a closet full of skis and boots. So I do remember clumsy darkness, wild heartbeats and the smell of chilled sweat.
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