Excerpt from Spanish Pancakes by Erica Rivera
The first forkful is other-worldly. The pancakes are thin, but heavier than the Bisquick version I’m accustomed to. Are they saturated in cream or simply undercooked? Who cares—they’re delicious. Each wedge dissolves into a slippery, sugary goo on my tongue. Another forkful follows. Another. Another. I am one-fourth of the way through the stack when my stomach aches with satiety. How many pancakes does my host mother expect me to eat?
“¡Dios mio!” a voice squeals behind me. I turn with a powdered sugar mustache on my face. My host sister cackles as she glances from the pancake stack to me. “Those crêpes were meant for all of us!” she says.
I look down at the oily-faced Pac-Man stack. Crêpes? Isn’t that a French specialty?
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