Classic pancake with a strong egg taste. It is spongey and absorbent and most receptive to syrup and the fluffy scoop of butter. The slices drenched in sweet syrup almost melts inside my cheeks. This is the taste of Sunday morning (on a Thursday).
Smooth, hot-turned-lukewarm chocolate. Not too sweet, nor too bitter. But my tongue feels none of the tablea grain I’m accustomed too. My mouth is looking for the viscousity distinct to the classic Spanish hot chocolate Mother cooks.
An empty plate and cup, and wandering (bittersweet) thoughts about my lost cause.
The hair, the face, the voice, the thoughts of my lost cause.