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The world is not this perfect pancake. Aesthetically, it’s perfect. Perfect color, shape and size. It’s enviable. But we all know beyond that, it’s the ones fried in butter with crispy edges. Those are THE ONES. But we like to pretend. We like to pretend what photographs best is supreme. Whose standards are we living our lives by?

This morning I made pancakes shaped like amoebus. I used a dollop of pistachio cream (Nutella like) on top. That’s my heaven. They were delicious, decadent. Nothing else matters. Fuck your pristinely, circular buttermilk discs.


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