Let's Bake Pancakes on a Lonely Morning

It is common to wake up in the slightly dark dawn. It is also common to take a sip of cold water from the small water bottle by the bedside, crawl back under the covers, and surrender yourself to a shallow sleep.

A morning that is nothing special. A morning where I wake up a little later than usual. I sluggishly drag my heavy body out of bed, and even when I open the curtains, the room doesn't get much brighter. The sky is as murky and cloudy as my own mind. The rainy season sky is covered in gray clouds. A drizzling rain falls, keeping the sun far away.

Oh, somehow, I feel so sluggish, and everything feels heavy. A rather lackluster morning has arrived.

Before going to sleep, I touch the laundry I hung to dry on the curtain rail. I wish it were dry. But as I thought, the towels and T-shirts are still limp and damp. I left the air conditioner on and set the fan to oscillate, blowing air evenly over them, but not even a single face towel is dry.

I knew it, but I guess I had a little hope. I feel a little hurt by the laundry that won't dry. Even though I've faced the same morning many times and know the result. Even though it can't be helped. In my daily life as a housewife, small hurts, like the sting of a paper cut on a fingertip, seem to be scattered everywhere, just as much as the joys.

I, who feel a little hurt by the laundry that won't dry, also feel quietly hurt by the bathtub lid and chair where pink mold appears somewhere, even though I washed and wiped them. I notice toast crumbs scattered on the floor I just vacuumed, and I quietly feel hurt again. At my favorite supermarket, where I put my heart into choosing, I finally bought two large peaches, but neither of them is sweet, and I feel hurt all by myself.

I buy two packs of sale eggs, limited to two per person, and when I open the fridge with a warm feeling, I find eggs I bought yesterday that I haven't used yet, and I feel hurt by my own forgetfulness. I discover that the large garlic I intended to use for chicken and green bean tomato stew, which I thought I had just bought, has sprouted and shriveled in the vegetable drawer, and I feel hurt again.

I am already covered in wounds.

The final straw is when I steam a large amount of new potatoes, mix them with minced meat seasoned sweet and salty and carefully sautéed onions, roll them into many balls, gently coat them in breadcrumbs, and fry them with care in rice oil. Every time I realize that such homemade croquettes can never beat the perfect taste of supermarket deli croquettes, I feel greatly hurt. These hurts are, after all, common occurrences. Indeed, even if you call them wounds, each one is quite small. They are small, but feeling hurt all alone, I inevitably feel down. I feel lonely and dejected. I end up feeling lonely.

Lonely. Lonely. I feel kind of lonely.

A morning where I feel lonely, having been slightly hurt by the laundry that won't dry.

When the loneliness piles up and I can't even see the sun, and the morning sluggishness is extraordinary, that's when it happens. To comfort my hurt self, I decide to bake as many small, small pancakes as I like. I mix flour, eggs, and milk in a bowl with a whisk, making it a bit thin. As the sweet, gentle scent begins to drift along with the whisking sound, the loneliness begins to sing in my heart, trembling like a little blue bird in a music box.

I heat the frying pan and drop the batter little by little, as if drawing polka dots. Plop, plop. Plop, plop. That's right. I line up many, many five-centimeter circles all over the pan. Oh my, how cute, oh my, how fun. Oh my, I feel a bit more energetic. The magic of pancakes begins to take hold. In my heart, the blue bird of loneliness is also chirping happily and swaying.

For me, who has been hurt all alone by various household chores and has become lonely and dejected, this kind of carefree breakfast seems to work well. French toast is good, and salt kelp rice balls with green onion and tofu miso soup are good too, but this morning, these small pancakes were the perfect prescription. Many, many round, small pancakes are baked and piled casually on a white plate. A mountain of golden-brown pancakes is formed. What a happy mountain it is. The sweet smell of baking pancakes fills the kitchen and my heart. What heals my trivial wounds is the small, small pancakes I bake for myself. Perhaps, even for big hurts, this kind of thing might be the bandage. Perhaps the treatment for wounds is just as the words say, simply placing a hand on them, and it didn't need to be anything grand.

I continue to bake lovely rounds one after another until the bowl is empty. I bake all the pancakes round and scoop them up with a spatula. I put the last one on the plate. There, it's done. Leaving the dishes in the sink as they are, I eagerly carry them to the table and serve them.

For times like this, I add as much golden maple syrup as I like. Drip, drip. One, two, I poke them with a fork. Three, four. Oh, that's right, let's brew some black coffee. Five, six. Oh my, somehow, loneliness seems to be a good thing for the heart too. Seven, eight. A sense of freshness blows into my sluggish gray heart, and it seems to be vividly colored.

On a lonely morning when the rain continues and I am hurt by little things, let's bake pancakes. While I carefully gaze at my loneliness, let's bake many, many small, small pancakes. I am a lonely person. But look, I can bake pancakes for myself. Even if I miss the pancakes my mother used to bake in some vague memory and want to cry like the rainy season sky, isn't that okay? Even adults can cry deeply all alone, can't they?

On a lonely morning, stay lonely. Let's bake pancakes. Wonderful, gentle pancakes, whether small or large. If you eat them in a bite, they are a very effective medicine. Cherish my loneliness. Don't lose a part of me. Don't hate my loneliness. Don't mind being hurt. Loneliness is my precious, precious little bird.

Let's try spending time with the little bird called loneliness chirping cutely. Let's enjoy the morning of small pancakes. The rainy season continues, and the laundry won't dry, but I, who have learned to love my wounds, seem to have nothing to fear. I seem to be able to live while laughing even when hurt. Loneliness, kindness, and even wounds are different faces of the same flower. Every flower that blooms in life is beautiful. The flowers of wounds and loneliness are also dignified and beautiful.

It feels like it's going to be a good day, and the me in the mirror I peek into is still lonely, but smiling gently. My countless wounds are also a simple bouquet of wildflowers. The usual morning becomes just a little bit special. There are still many pancakes on the plate. They should end up in the stomachs of my lucky family. I, who am somehow getting through the rainy season sky, am busy crying and laughing.

Let's bake pancakes on a lonely morning. A small pancake and a lonely me. It's a better combination than I thought. If I can think that it's okay to have days like this, then all my wounds become my allies. It's better to have more allies. I am savoring such a quiet morning all by myself.