Flimsy, yet light as a letter,
these irregularly-shaped pancakes
appear to be snow-dusted ponds with dips in their perimeters.

Fragile family flapjacks fly from the griddle onto each plate.
Folded notes to be passed between generations
and opened with smiles of satisfaction.

They are tasty relatives of the crêpe—
crafted one at a time
with my mother’s care and patience.
Her loving ladle pours the slippery batter,
and a circle flows and stretches
toward the square border of the griddle.
Steam escapes while bubbles gather for a reunion.
Soon a gummy texture takes over the cake—
Fulfillment is approaching.

Bright scraping and ringing—
like a metal mailbox opening and shutting—
lifts the cake to its oven-roasted dish.
Now the contents—
a flavorful fruit filling—
can be sealed.

Preparing our breakfasts,
we gather around the table.
Glassy strawberries are each letter’s message,
divulging the secret sweetness of our family recipe.
If frozen, pools of red ink trickle and spread,
enveloping the cake.
If fresh, the berry seeds
crack betwixt our teeth.
Drifts of powdered sugar add to the downy appeal of the cake—
a scrumptious family tradition.