“I don’t want pancakes anymore,” my friend says, as I have just finished swearing and tearing the first, red sample off from the frying pan. She has been standing next to me, watching me fight as the pancake insists in sticking to the pan in sickness and health. I look at her, sweating.
“It looks like raw meat,” she goes on.
I look back at the plate with the massacred, pink mess. She is right, and we both burst out laughing. I agree that maybe this wasn’t the best idea, or maybe I justify it, I don’t remember, as I pour new batter, this time green, onto the frying pan.

At least they were tasty, and the picture is good.

…

(This story told in pictures.)