Sunday morning. Blueberries inside the pancakes. Simmered peaches on top of the pancakes. Slanted sun on the porch. Mozart playing. The pleasure of seeing it all come together—the sizzle of poured batter, the bubbles in the cooking cakes. So good when they don’t stick to the pan! (“Is this heaven,” the stranger asked? Naw. It’s just Iowa.) Amen.