"Thank you for that input, supervisor." He slid the spatula under the pancake and flipped it with significantly more force than necessary. It landed half-folded on itself in the pan.
"That one's funky," Sarah observed diplomatically, peering at the misshapen result.
"Funky is a valid style choice in pancake artistry."
The first pancake was, objectively speaking, a complete disaster. It got stuck to the pan, was torn roughly in half during extraction, and had its edges thoroughly blackened. Cole frowned at it with obvious disappointment, then scraped it into my compost bin with dignified acceptance of failure.
"A temperature adjustment is required," he muttered analytically.
The next pancakes were notably better. Lopsided, a little too brown on one side, but recognizably pancakes. He stacked them on a plate with growing confidence and visible pride.
"Scrambled eggs next," he announced, cracking eggs into the now-empty bowl with considerably more success than Sarah's first attempt had yielded.
"Don't overcook them," I advised from my position. "Low heat and constant stirring. That's the secret."
"Low heat. Constant stirring." He repeated it like a mantra, a prayer, a survival instruction.
The eggs came out slightly wetter than ideal but otherwise completely acceptable. Sarah arranged sliced bananas and fresh strawberries on a plate with intense artistic concentration, then suddenly darted outside through the front door. She returned moments later, clutching a tiny vase holding three brave purple asters she'd apparently spotted in my yard.
"Centerpiece," she declared proudly, placing it ceremoniously on my small kitchen table. "Nice breakfast needs flowers."
"Breakfast is officially served," Cole announced, his voice mixing obvious pride and lingering uncertainty in roughly equal measure.
He helped me carefully to the table, supporting my weight as I hobbled over on my crutches. The spread before me was humble: a stack of imperfect pancakes, a mound of soft scrambled eggs, bright colorful fruit, and the wildflower centerpiece. It was, without any exaggeration, the most beautiful meal I had ever seen in my entire life.
"This is absolutely amazing," I said, and I meant it with every fiber of my being.
"They're honestly kind of burnt," Cole said, looking at the pancakes critically.
"Burnt is a flavor," Sarah informed him with great authority, already drowning her pancake in maple syrup. "Ms. Martinez at school says that all the time."
"Ms. Martinez sounds like she's making excuses for the cafeteria food."
"She totally is. But she's still right anyway." I joked.
I took a bite of the pancake. It was dense but had a wholesome, honest flavor. Not restaurant quality. Not even particularly good by objective culinary standards. But I tasted something else entirely in every bite—effort, determination, care, the stubborn refusal to let me go hungry in my own home.
"These are genuinely perfect," I said, my voice unexpectedly thick with emotion.
Cole's blue eyes met mine across the small table. We shared a small moment of understanding in that instant.
"Can we make pancakes every Saturday?" Sarah asked hopefully through a mouthful.
"We'll see how it goes," Cole said, but he was smiling warmly now.
After we finished eating, Cole absolutely wouldn't let me help clear the dishes. He and Sarah made quick, efficient work of the cleanup, then he started unpacking the remaining grocery bags that had been waiting on the counter.
"What's all this?" I asked, watching various containers and packages emerge.
"We're stocking your fridge and freezer for the weekend," he said matter-of-factly, as if this were completely normal. "Sarah helped me plan out meals you can just reheat easily."
"This container is for soup," Sarah announced importantly, brandishing a permanent marker. "I'm writing 'SOUP' on it so you know."
"Good thinking. Make sure it's spelled correctly."
"I know how to spell soup, Uncle C. S-O-U-P."
"Just checking to be safe."
