an ode to pancakes

he smiles at me with his tiny chicklet teeth and a spatula in his hand. he's so small at the stove. propped up on a padded wooden stool, wearing only a t-shirt; no pants, immersed in his creation. pancakes. a wheat-toned island, blanketed by terra-cotta tiles split the kitchen into two sections. i run my fingers over the lacqured tile, loving the imperfection. i trace with my fingers over the thin lines of muddy grout-- making squares.