Different!
Sitting down, they caught my eye immediately. I was at the easy-to-ignore age of sixteen next to a cousin of mine; the adults swirling around getting the smaller children in order. I saw my mom in charge of breakfast just earlier that day and I knew exactly how she makes pancakes: Very thick and riddled with blueberries - colourful pineapple grenades exploding from the centre towards the scorched battle lines on the surface.
These were thinner, less violent. Not scorched; incubated. The blueberries weren't a remnant of the former battle between bubbling batter and scorching pan; they were blue globes, like little ocean worlds. These weren't crêpes, no, I'd been blessed enough by the events of my childhood to know what those were. You could roll those up, fill them with cheese and maple syrup.
These were something different. More Québécois than Anglais, but just barely. Just then mom came through the screen door with a bang and an armada of cousins, aunts, and uncles close behind. But if she was getting the family from the other cottages, who had taken over the pancakes?
