My Swedish friend taught me to make these thin pancakes in hot buttery cast iron skillets,
their lovely egg color a tribute to Princess,
and all the other hens who have come and gone from our farm;
the invisible cheesy center,
a tangy surprise from Annabelle’s incredibly yellow summer milk;
bought at a roadside stand in the upper oceanside corner of Maine,
some miles from our summer cabin,
a place where the lake and husband work together to make running water,
the sunset – the nightly weather forecast,
scooping stray pine needles from the floor – the only housework,
memories savored with each bite.
At the party last night
they wondered how I could make money,
and why on earth do I work so hard?