Stir The Coffee Essay -- essays research papers

Through the steam of my coffee I could see a miniature set of shiny red shoes swinging back and forth underneath the counter at the diner. A little girl had been sitting atop the red stool since I had arrived, just sitting watching the cook flip pancakes all morning long with a mature sense of fascination. Up and down, and up and down, over and over again, the batter always formed into delicious solid creations, some with blueberries, some with chocolate, some just plain and simple. The cook sported a wonderful apron that looked like it had been around forever, cooked a million pancakes, and still lived to tell its tale of the oils and toppings and syrups it had seen in its day. The old man’s red shirt could be seen through the burn holes in the apron, as if they were war wounds. The cook didn’t seem to mind the heat of the stove, or stir at all when the burning oil from the pan spat at his flesh. He was caked in a film of grease, butter and batter, and only occasionally broke from his cooking rituals to wipe his forehead with the sopping wet rag that was slung over his left shoulder. Each pancake was a delicate creation that the old man prepared with great consideration and effort, making each one perfect, but none the same. Never would the man be compared to any machine- every one was original, every one special. The special of the day was peanut butter pancakes, although I didn’t see anybody order that one. The little girl with the shiny shoes, who had been there sinc...