A brother makes me pancakes. Without having to ask, he takes out a mixing bowl in the morning and heats a skillet on the stove. He whips up batter. I watch from a seat at the kitchen counter.
The first pancake does not come out right. No big shakes. I tell him it's like Katie Holmes' character in "Pieces of April." Something about how she is the first pancake, the first child in the family, the one who never turns out totally right. He looks at me funny.
My brother tries again.
And the other pancakes turn out fine. They are light and fluffy, served with slices of banana and strawberries, and scoops of vanilla ice cream. He spreads separate layers of Nutella and chunky peanut butter in between as well.
They are over the top and delicious. We take turns at the plate while drinking orange juice and Champagne. Is it any wonder he remains my all-time favorite sibling?
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