I am not kidding. It is my birthday. When I was young my mother tells me “go and see your godfather and pick up your gift”. For me those words connotes a feeling of being special that my godfather would take time to get me a gift. Then it turns out I only get a coin, no fancy wrapped box. Although, it didn’t matter, when I was young children were not encourage to complain or say anything not nice. After I got my coin I would hurry back home and tell mom of the good news. To surprise me, mom would make me pancake for my breakfast with hot chocolate. I would be seated on top of our big dining room table (I was young, I do that) while she would be mixing the flour, milk, sugar, butter, baking soda, the rhythm coming out from clicking the whisk against the bowl is like music to my ears filling me with anticipation. I love looking at her hands tilting the bowl slowly until the batter comes out gradually spreading around the pan, she would knew the right size then untilts the bowl. I would wait a few minutes until it cooks, then she picks it up with spatula and slides it on my plate. She never let time pass by because right away she cuts a slice of butter then wipes it on top of the steaming pancake, when the steam is gone, so is the butter, only a shiny greasy sight is left that disappears with the caramel colored syrup poured on top. What makes everything special is I get the first cooked pancake, it’s my birthday. I don’t know maybe my brother and sister were in school and I was alone with my mother that time. I didn’t like cake when I was young. You know that spongy, airy thing that comes with white icing, sometimes it comes with flowers which by the way is the only thing that I ate, those flowers I suck them like lollipop. But the icing and the cake, ewwww.