Polly’s Perfect Pancakes

Written by: Zoe Luglan

Polly rose with the sun that morning, just like she did every morning. She stood, back straight in front of the mirror, and pulled her hair into a tightly woven braid, long down her bony back. She dressed swiftly, then made her way down the steps into her pancake shop. This shop was her most cherished creation. It was positioned wonderfully in the center of town on a street named Palmer Place. Each of the four walls stood tall, painted in the purist of white, pristine and unblemished. As she stood in front of the stove, preparing the day’s first pancake, the floor beneath her reflected pale sunlight. Small bubbles rose on the pancake and she flipped it, revealing a perfect golden-brown circle. A moment or two passed. She removed the pancake from the pan and placed it just so, in the center of a white, circular plate.

Ring! A bell sang, loud and clear, through the shop. “Welcome to Polly’s Perfect Pancakes!” she called out as the day’s first customer entered, an elderly lady in navy-rimmed glasses. She made sure to give the woman her widest, brightest smile—one that rivaled the smiles of dental adverts on television. Oh, how she hated the way they interrupted Julia Child!

All the days of Polly’s adult life began like this. Her shop did well enough and she was satisfied. She considered her life perfect. Things went smoothly for years, just the way Polly liked it. Her waking hours beginning quietly before leading into a day of set routines, allowing her to lead a life that made sense to her. It was predictable. It was comfortable. This was true for a long time, this calm manner of days—until a bright, sunny week in April. The week began unassuming enough. 

Monday brought five customers every hour. This was normal for Polly. She liked this predictability. It gave her plenty of time to meticulously produce each pancake. She took her craft seriously. Each cup of flour was leveled out and sifted thoroughly, soon to be joined by baking powder and a pinch of salt. To this mixture, she added sugar and a hint of cinnamon. The eggs were cracked cleanly and she bent over the bowl, examining intensely to ensure no shell pieces were left behind. Buttermilk was the last to join, then the batter was whisked to perfection. 

Tuesday brought four customers every hour. This sparked a slight twinge in Polly’s mind, a faint stitch of strangeness, but she disregarded it, as this was known to happen once every five years or so. It didn’t have to be a big deal. She could simply choose not to think about it, she told herself. This was difficult. Worry lingered in the back of her mind the rest of the day and all through the night. 

Wednesday brought three customers every hour. Now this, this concerned Polly. Rumination snaked into her mind and ate away at her. Did people not like her pancakes anymore? She had perfected her art, surely that couldn’t be true! Or worse, was she no longer up to standard? Was her perfect not good enough? Tears welled in her eyes and her knees trembled. Gripping the countertop, she shook her head. She couldn’t allow herself to go there. A deep breath. A neural spark. Maybe it had something to do with the shop? Yes! She could mop the floor again. It was nearing noon and she’d only mopped six times that morning. She smiled. That had to be it.

Thursday brought two customers every hour. Polly stood in front of the window, looking out at Palmer Place, blinking away tears. She was mulling over where her missing customers were when she noticed something peculiar happening across the street. What was once an empty shop, now had colorful balloons by the front door. Every few minutes people would come in or out of the door, always with bright, happy faces. She stared for quite some time, so long, in fact, that when a voice called out, “May I have the check, please,” she jumped. Polly tore her eyes from the window and attended to the customer. For the time being, the shop across the street was gone from her mind. 

Friday brought one customer every hour. Polly paced the kitchen and fought to slow her breaths. Where was everyone? She worked hard, day and night, giving her all to this shop. Was it no longer enough? Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she plated a golden pancake, and before walking out of the kitchen, she was sure to plaster a bright smile on her face. After placing the plate in front of the singular diner in her shop, she peered out the window again, narrowing her eyes at the shop across the street. This time she inspected it closer. It had a sign above the door—in painted swirls was “Pancake Paradise”. She gasped. There couldn’t be another pancake shop on Palmer Place! No one could compete with her pancakes. She had the best of the best. Why would anyone dream of going someplace else? A dark thought entered her mind. Surely that’s not where her customers have gone? Her heart began to race. She bent over, hands on her knees. “But I gave everything I have to this place,” she whispered as tears welled up in her eyes. That night, she closed up shop promptly at eight o’clock and cried herself to sleep. 

Saturday brought no customers. In a fit of distress, Polly left her post behind the cash register and threw the front door open. There was a long line outside of Pancake Paradise. Many of whom she recognized as having once been regulars at her shop. Why would people want to go there? She knew no one’s pancakes were more perfect than hers—and why would you not want the most perfect pancake in town!

“Well, I must go tell them what they’re missing!” Polly said aloud as she crossed the street. With a grand swing of the door, she entered Pancake Paradise. It was loud and messy and altogether a true disgrace to pancakes. She stormed down the aisle looking at the colorful plates in disgust. Marching up to a table near the back, she looked down at the square plate, then at the young man sitting there. He looked up at her with a puzzled look. She looked down at the plate again. 

Pointing at the irregular-shaped pancake sitting there, she asked, “Why would you eat something like that?”

The young man’s eyes widened and looked around as though for help. He stumbled on his words for a few moments, trying and failing, to say something, anything, when an older, heavy-set man with kind eyes appeared. 

“Hello, I’m Paul, the owner of Pancake Paradise. How can I help you?” Crinkles appeared by his eyes as he smiled, looking between Polly and the young man. 

Polly took Paul in, his goofy smile, his soft eyes, and anger sizzled beneath her skin. She pointed at the pancake on the orange, square plate. 

“I’m sorry,” she sneered, “I just don’t understand why someone would eat that. It looks like a blob—far from perfect if you ask me!”

Paul took a deep breath and looked at her, really looked at her. This woman was surely having a fit. He’d never seen such a woman before, so pent up, so angry, and unraveling right before his eyes. Pity filled him from head to toe. 

Gently, he said, “Maybe people aren’t asking for perfection.”

She gasped. Her mouth open, she searched for the right words to make this man regret saying something so absurd, when she heard it. It was quiet at first, a subtle noise beneath the crackle of her temper, but once her mind focused, shredding all that was a distraction, it filled her world. Music. She hadn’t heard it in years, oh, she must’ve been a little girl then. It was a song her father used to play for her. On nights when she’d wake in a fit of tears, he’d pull out his guitar and play it softly in the moonlit room. Tears pricked her eyes and she looked around, seeing truly for the first time. 

Walls of lavender surrounded her. Smiles, soft and full-hearted, glistened at every table. Laughter filled the air. A couple held hands over the table. A father hugged his daughter by the door. A fat tear rolled down her cheek, slow and meandering. 

She turned back to the older man. 

“Could I—” She swallowed. “Would it be okay if I had a pancake?”

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