On hot, hot summer mornings, when the sun was so bright it could melt a popsicle down it’s stick and onto my already messy hands, I was allowed lemonade for breakfast.
I’d wake up to my mom in the kitchen squeezing and stirring lemons in the big plastic pitcher.
“The sun is shining extra bright today,” she’d say as she added more lemons to the giant jug.
I’d always prop myself up on the counter and watch her make the treat. She’d smile over at me as she squeezed the bittersweet juice in.
“Do you want me to do anything?” I’d ask
Every time she’d smile. “Can you get me the special ingredient?”
I’d open up the fridge and take out one orange, hand it to my mom and let her cut it in two. Then she’d hand me half and let me squeeze the sweet fruit juice into the slightly bitter juice.
Mom always placed the lemonade in the fridge to chill while she mixed the pancake batter.
I’d scoop big gooey spoonfuls’ onto to the pan and listen as the butter sizzled them.
Mom would watch the pancakes as I placed glasses, maple syrup and forks on the picnic table outside. The lemonade was always placed on last.
I would carry out the plate of buttery pancakes and mom would carry out the cold jug of lemonade.
On hot, hot days, when popsicles melted down my hand, nothing was sweeter then my mom’s lemonade.
RIP IT APART!
