Blueberry pancakes are my latest craze. I am addicted to the things. Honest now, there is nothing better to wake up to on a lazy Sunday morning than freshly cooked Canadian Blueberry Pancakes with lashings of whipped cream.
I’m not totally sure why we call them Canadian Pancakes, I’m sure that the recipe is similar to ones cooked in a million other homes around the world, but in our family that’s what they have always been known as, so hey, that’s what I’m going to call them.
It’s actually a rainy day outside. In many ways a typical British morning, not the kind that is going to inspire me to drag myself out of the house and make my way down to the country reserve I’d been contemplating visiting for a nice long ride on my bike. No the idea of getting rained on while being active just does not appeal to me today, so I’m more inclined to sit quietly in the kitchen indulging myself on my feast of heavenly tastes and textures as I devour my plate of exquisite home made pancakes.
Syrup suddenly seems like a good addition to the mix I am enjoying, my sweet tooth leaping to the fore as I hunt in the cupboards to see what we have. I am lucky to discover a teardrop bottle of golden nectar, true Canadian Maple Syrup, and I smile as I consider that now, I can at least say my Canadian Pancakes really do have an authentic bit of Canada on them.
I sigh contentedly leaning back in the chair gazing out the kitchen window at the oak tree outside blowing in the breeze as I push my plate away. I have always enjoyed cooking and if I may say so myself without sounding vain I am a pretty good cook at that. Today’s breakfast was perfection.
Reflecting quietly on my week, I sit there absent mindely fiddling with my wedding ring. I’m not even really sure why I still wear the thing, a reminder of a decidedly disastrous decision in my life maybe? For some strange reason as a young man, I’d decided that denying my feelings as a gay man and getting involved in a straight relationship would turn me into a sociably acceptable heterosexual red blooded male, but nothing could have been further from the truth.
Within weeks of the farcical fiasco of my wedding, we’d realised it wasn’t going to work and I’d finally come out to my other half, probably shattering her perception of the male kind of our species for life. I hadn’t really set out to hurt anyone; it was just a misguided attempt by me to fit into what I believed society demanded of me. Procreation is meant to be the soul purpose of marriage and the reason for male/female copulation here on earth right? Well it is if you believe what the church ram down our throats.
You may detect from this assessment of religious teachings that I am not to big a fan of the whole church thing. It’s not that I don’t believe in God, its just that I have a big problem with understanding why if he were a fair, just and loving God that he’d make me with these feelings I cannot control and then expect me to not allow them to influence my life!
I mean I can quite happily survive in a monogamous relationship, I’m not out to shag every man on legs. That it would seem is how the world perceives what being a gay man is all about, so I cannot help but wonder if that is how those in charge within the church perceive us too. If that is the case, then I guess I can understand their concern, but if they are aware that a gay man can be just as dedicated and committed to a person as a straight man, then I have issue with their argument that being gay is a sin.
Goodness I start out thinking about pancakes and I’m suddenly talking theology. My mind works in weird ways. When I am on my own and sit and allow my mind to run amok. I am frequently amazed at the directions it takes. Call it a vivid imagination; I’m sure my mind has won awards for its ability to make even the most obscure into something believable.
I stretch across the table for the yellow paper that the mailman dropped off with the post yesterday. A new initiative in our area, it’s meant to be a free advertising paper full of items that people are trying to get rid of. A bit of a waist of time as far as I am concerned. Hell there are dozens of websites online that you can go to, the likes of Gumtree or Ebay where you can find and get rid of stuff all too easily, why would anyone want to put anything into traditional print anymore?
As I flick through the pages of the rag glossing over the assortment of tat on offer, I am prompted to stop and check out the Pets listing. Actually it’s not even really the Pets column that catches my eye; it’s the single word Husky that grabs my attention. Now I’ve always had a desire to own my own pure bread Husky. You know, the one’s with one blue eye one green eye. Yeah they have got to be the most amazingly beautiful creature on earth. Proud, cheeky and mischievous all in one face, no other domesticated animal appeals to me in the same way as a husky, so when I spot husky puppies in this paper, I am suddenly very impressed that this paper exists.
I want one, a puppy all of my own, and as I’m sat there at the table, I can’t help but feel that now is a good time to get one. Inspired to suddenly do something with my day, I gather up the paper and make my way into the library where the phone sits on my study table. I reach out for the handset and dial the number listed in the advert. Nervously I listen to the electronic ring in the speaker as I wait for my call to be answered.
I glance at the clock to ensure it is not too early to be making such a call, suddenly hearing the call being connected on the other end. A high pitched posh voice of a typical footballer’s wife whines down the line at me. I roll my eyes to myself as I enquire about the puppies, and make arrangements to pop over to view the animals later that afternoon. There are two bitches and a dog left, my money is on the dog, but I’ll have to check out what its personality is like first.
Smiling at my luck, I make my way off to the bathroom where I run the water to take a bath, climbing into the hot water in the bathtub and soaking in pleasure as I contemplate the future. My own little white and black puppy running around the house, my own space, my own life. Just what the doctor had ordered I think. Sundays have always been a good day for me.
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