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;

the blueberries,

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?