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I love the word supper. It sounds cosy and uplifting, like a meal you would need after a hard night’s snowshoeing to rescue an injured baby moose. You stumble home, exhausted but jovial, and your waiting loved ones would bring you supper while you regaled them with the thrilling and humourous tale of how you carried the baby moose back to its Mum. But it doesn’t come up that much in my regular awesome life: dinner and a couple of drinks is usually enough to rock me through the evening. But tonight got a supper and tonight rocked. I didn’t save any baby mooses, but I didn’t hurt any either, so I think the books balance.

I’m not going to give you a pancake recipe. You don’t need one, and even if you did, there are a gazillion on the Internet, just waiting for your call. (Not to mention in just about every cookbook ever written. Heh, cookbooks. Remember them? Adorable.) M’s pro-tips on pancake making: the batter should be thicker and the temperature lower than you may think. Also, don’t skimp on the baking powder.

Anyway, I was just hanging out, teaching doves how to keep their feathers whiter than clouds at dawn through the beauty of song, and lo, M presented me with supper. A plate of pikelets (which are pancakes writ small) and a sauce of hot honey. Hot honey sounds somewhat salacious, but is so delicious and warming that it tastes of pure, non-salacious happy.

Honey is an anagram for magic.

C’mon, just do it already. Pancakes for supper. I recommend and I’ve never steered you wrong before, right?

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