Poems and Thoughts    by Frank Maurer

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Pierre's Pancake. Pierre, my son, was coming with his son, Rowan, To visit our farm as occurs every month or so. As we planned the visit, they would leave to come, Soon after he made a pancake breakfast for Rowan. I knew how delicious his pancakes were, So I asked him if he would bring a couple for me as well. This he did: a beautiful evenly browned cake, Tucked in a Ziplock bag to keep it moist. There was only one because, as he explained, The rest were just gobbled up. I drew it partly out of the bag to give it a test. Even though it had been created a few hours previously, The sweet, pancake aroma struck my nostrils. The brown pattern was perfect, the thickness was even and delicate. I sank my lips around it and utilized my incisores through it. Oh, my, the moisture, the mellifluous taste, Just lifted my emotions almost to a state of imbibition! Just a 'plain' pancake--no syrup nor butter, Stood alone as a gourmet achievement par excellence! My son, Pierre, has indeed perfected the 'art of the pancake'! Frank Maurer 18 January 2026 1140 Hours.