Hotcakes

Grandma's Hands

You know, there are few things in this world that are as soul crushing as fucking up a seasoned grandma's recipe. As disheartening as it may be, mastering one of said recipes is the epitome of the word satisfying. 

Hot Cakes

Growing up I was terrified of losing those close to me. I had a decent existence. I enjoyed school, my friends, and I was fortunate enough to have a family. Even then, there wasn't much I'd truly take comfort in. Everyday was a variable, and the only constant was her energy.

Wrapping her worn hands over mine was Gma's choice of guidance. She may have cracked her jokes, but she never once spoke down to me. With such a tiny stature, I was sure she'd come down on me with a mighty roar everytime I made a mistake. Not my Gma. She would smile, dig deep in her wits for something funny yet insightful, and make sure I didn't lose my drive. For twenty years I didn't. And for twenty years I've kneaded, eyeballed, and seasoned my way through life. 

Wet? My short slumber was interrupted by a happy yet impatient Matcha. She's only 6 months but with all the fluff surrounding her tiny frame you'd think she's bigger than she actually is. Matcha and I's relationship is that of the love hate kind.

"I love you fluff ball," I just hate how much Samoyeds shed. Vacuuming has become more of a daily essential than a weekly to monthly task. Matcha wakes me from my daydream with a squeak from the toy pizza in her mouth. I envelope her in a playful hug before lifting her off the ground. "You're worth everything babygirl," woof, "and don't forget it." I set Matcha down before raising the blinds to the window in my studio.

Matcha's disapproving bark only proves my thoughts true. This place is a damn mess. Bowls and mugs line my nightstand and spill over to my mattress. Wires from various video game consoles and controllers are a jumbled mess at the foot of my TV stand. Not to mention the enormous pile of clothes outside of my closet doors reminiscent of a tornado. Is that an insult to tornadoes? Who knows. What I do know is I see a clean pair of leggings resting at the top of said pile. I shimmy into the burgundy bottoms, grab Matcha's leash, and we head for the door.

Matcha lingers outside of the apartment, as if to say "Harleigh, you know damn well this is just a clever way to procrastinate instead of clean." 

"Ahh, how observant of you Matcha. You know joggers mean a walk, and leggings mean a run, however, maybe i'm just trying to better myself. Sheesh. Can a young lady not take care of her body before her material possessions?" Woof woof. "Yea yea it's bullshit I know but you almost bought it this time!" I lock up and say hello to the start of another day.