It was sizzling hot, grill of oily bacon fat popping with rashers wriggling in the pan like flesh-eels, and some greasy mushrooms brown black clods of fungal earth on the side. It smells of piggy, and crispy toast, and a bit of fried onion. I’m at the frying pan, with a bowl of yellow pancake mixture smelling of vanilla essence and flour and I am completely here, taking it all in, thoughtless. I feel the skin of my feet on the textured floor, little lumps of screed and maybe a lost piece of onion skin beneath toes. Lift arm with ladle, scoop through the yellow white thick fluid, and pour some in the shiny pan. A flashing roar of sound and smells as the frying starts, inhale and feel warm hungry goodness inside. My belly feels orange warm, all soft glow and happy sadness, or maybe just gentle goodness. Spatula, creep it under the edges of the pancake and lift the bubbling dough and turn, now crispy brown caramel colors and contours, breathing in slowly snffffff mostly through my right nostril, my chest rising and belly expanding slowly, and an almost bliss there. Thoughts pass through so slowly, a comment on how good this feels, an imagined conversation with Tom, fully noticed and felt.
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