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POPSTROKE

BarTenders Eatery

Kids
Cakes

Finished with whipped butter and maple syrup

My granddaughter is six and holds her putter like a hockey stick. I have stopped correcting her. She makes more putts than I do.

It was a Sunday morning in early November, crisp enough for mittens, the sun just clearing the trees. We had played the front nine. On the ninth, she lined up a long putt, closed one eye the way she'd seen me do, and announced, "It goes that way, Grandma," pointing to a break I hadn't seen at all.

It went that way. She was right. She is usually right.

Then she was hungry, in the sudden and total way only six-year-olds can be hungry.

Kids Cakes. Buttermilk pancakes, round and warm, with whipped butter melting into every crease. Maple syrup poured on by a small hand that did not know the meaning of restraint. I did not intervene. Some mornings are not for intervening.

She ate with both elbows on the table and syrup on her mitten. She told me about her teacher, her best friend and a dog she plans to own someday. I listened to every word. Between bites she sprinted from our patio table to the playground and back, twice, syrup and all.

We finished the back nine at a leisurely pace. She won. She asked if we could come back next Sunday for pancakes and a rematch, and I said yes before she finished the sentence.

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