This is a diet

On Sunday morning, I pour buttermilk pancake batter, made with Eliina’s dad’s recipe, into a buttered frying pan and watch each nascent cake bubble and brown around the edges. I attempt to flip them perfectly, my little acrobatic pancakes, though most of them splat ungracefully and have to be repaired in medeas fry. Jeff manfully takes the pancake helm and finishes the frying. Then the cast of my improv group, the Diary Project, douses them in syrup. We consume two batches, plus a couple fried eggs, between the five of us. Henri covers his in warm butter and granulated sugar. We read the personals on Craigslist and snark at them unmercifully. Rewind. We are half-asleep on a wooden floor watching Clue and casting parts as ourselves. Rewind. Henri shows up to Diary Project bonding night in silk pajamas. Rewind. Bryan and two friends suddenly show up and devise Coke floats out of cookies and cream and cookie dough ice cream. Rewind. Jeff, John and I consume three consecutively baked $1 Tony’s frozen pizzas. Rewind. I am sweeping the apartment on Saturday evening, prepping for a Diary Project cast sleepover and movie night. Rewind. I am getting out of bed at 11am on Saturday, then scrounging for breakfast. Somehow a mimosa, a veggie burger and some Ben & Jerry’s Half-Baked ice cream sounds like an excellent combination.

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