Granny made pancakes the same way every day.
In her slippers and dressing gown, hair still taking shape under a factory of rollers, humming a Brenda Lee tune. Or Stones.
Surprisingly eclectic, granny.
Egg, milk, flour and an unregulated allowance on cinnamon.
The whisk plugged, screaming the mixture in short bursts. Taking form like a thought first thing in the morning. Gradually coalescing into the recognisable, the predictable, the expected.
Heat on, pan oiled, mixture added.
Just like her.
Just like her.
Granny didn't eat pancakes.
That was just like her.

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