my day in bisquik.

i made cinnamon rolls for breakfast,

which one of my roommate's and i ate. happily.

i made pancakes in a saucepan and called it college.

i played at doing a handstand and wondered

how many push-ups and how much more faith-in-gravity

i have to go.

too many.

the pancakes are for a play i wrote.

tiny play.

two minute play.

edible props.

i burned one side of one of the five i made and fanned at the smoke detector

for five minutes even though there was no smoke to begin with.

the last thing i want is the fucking fire department in my tiny kitchen.

(though one of my aunts once told my about how she heated a pyrex pan and then ran water over it and it burst into a thousand pieces or something, so the fire dept. had to be notified and "like half a dozen of the best-looking men i've ever seen were in my kitchen." i was like fifteen, i didn't know what to do with this story. i still don't. my aunts are silly. she advised me to get pyrex pans to attract good-looking firefighters, that was the moral of the story.)

i like baking.

making food.

it's a nice thing to do.

expensive, initially,

but nice nonetheless.