Ethan poured batter into the pan.
The pancake came out lopsided.
He frowned.
“Too thick.”
He tried again.
This one tore when he attempted to flip it.
“Stupid pancake.”
I leaned against the counter.
“Your father used to say that.”
Ethan looked up.
“Say what?”
“That pancakes were stupid whenever they didn’t cooperate.”
A small smile appeared on his face.
“Yeah. He used to get angry at the pan.”
“He once blamed the entire breakfast on a faulty stove.”
“It was a good stove.”
“I know. I bought it.”
Ethan laughed.
Then he looked down at the spatula.
“I keep trying to get them the way Dad did.”
I felt my throat tighten.
“Is that why you’ve been making pancakes every Sunday?”
He nodded.
“I remember watching him, but I don’t remember everything. I know he added something after the flour, but I can’t remember what.”
“Vanilla,” I said.
His eyes widened.
