Dad produced crepes this morning. Not pancakes—crepes. The distinction appears meaningful to him, though both are fundamentally flour made flat and sweetened.

Mom photographed them extensively before anyone was permitted to eat. The boys waited with the patience of saints, or perhaps prisoners. The kitchen smelled of butter and something celebratory that required documentation.

Thirty years of marriage, apparently. The crepes were thin as parchment, folded with ceremony, and disappeared faster than seemed possible. Gus positioned himself strategically near the stove throughout the entire production. I observed from the doorway—sometimes the best seats are the ones that offer an exit.

They saved us the last one. Torn in half, distributed fairly, received with the gravity such an occasion demanded. Not every morning requires crepes, but this one evidently did.

#pawscarwilde #crepes