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POPSTROKE

BarTenders Eatery

Buttermilk
Blueberry Pancakes

Finished with whipped butter and maple syrup

August. Eight in the morning, and the air already soft as a towel fresh from the dryer.

When I was a girl, my mother took us blueberry picking every summer. We came home purple to the elbows, and the next morning there would be pancakes. I hadn't thought about that in years.

But first, the round. My old college roommate and I had flown in from opposite coasts. On hole 11, I faced a long lag putt over two tiers, sixty feet if it was an inch. I studied it. I paced it. I whispered to it. The ball climbed the first tier, caught the second and settled eighteen inches from the cup.

The roommate applauded slowly. I tapped in for par and took a bow.

Then, on the patio: Buttermilk Blueberry Pancakes. Tender buttermilk pancakes with blueberries, little dark jewels that give way at the touch of a fork. Whipped butter slowly surrendering on top. Maple syrup, amber and unhurried, finding its way down every side.

I took a bite, the best pancakes since my mother's, and I was nine years old, purple fingers, my mother laughing in a kitchen that no longer exists.

I didn't say anything for a while. My roommate, to her eternal credit, let me have the moment. Then she stole a bite off my plate, and we were ourselves again.

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