In fact, the first pancake almost always came out burnt, folded, or shaped like something that had suffered a terrible accident.
David would hold it up proudly.
“Perfect. The test pancake.”
I used to laugh.
“You say that every week.”
“Quality control, Rachel. Very important.”
Noah would sit at the table, watching his father work.
Sometimes David let him pour the batter.
Sometimes he let him try flipping a pancake.
Usually, they made a tremendous mess.
But those Sunday mornings had been among the happiest moments of our lives.
And now my son was standing in the same kitchen, holding the same spatula.
I watched him pour batter into the skillet.
The pancake came out too thick.
He frowned.
“Not right.”
He tried again.
Suddenly, something occurred to me.
Noah had been making pancakes almost every Sunday for months.
I’d assumed he simply enjoyed cooking.
But he always used that spatula.
