I stretch my right arm up, reaching to the back of the shelf and I grasp the soft edge of the hard bowl. I slide it to the edge and gently lower it to the counter. The slightest shower of old flour descends in a wispy veil and lands on my sleeve.
Countless times, gnarled and loving hands mixing delightful treats in that ancient pink bowl…through seasons of life, laughter, joy and bitter sorrow…folded into the batter…a pink and heavy bowl…a cup of sweet, a pinch of sorrow…some salty days and a change of direction.
Keep whisking, keep on stirring my dearest…for do we ever really love those with whom we never laugh?
Ancient pink bowl…filling up with pancake happiness on a frozen January morn…life’s recipe passed on to the next generation, the next plate, the next mouth…keep on folding into pink memory as the 13 degree winds whip over the blackened drive…
690 Saint Paul 