Student Publishing Program ::

Olivia Cincotta

Chocolate Chip Mornings

Breakfast time on Saturday
My mom wakes me up early
And as we tiptoe down the stairs,
No one stirs
And I open the creaky wooden cabinets.

I grab the ingredients
While she takes care of the tools.
The reflection of the aluminum bowl
Bounces across the kitchen table
And makes a shape like a heart.

We mix and pour, sift and melt
While giggling silently
Because the pure white flour
Gets under my nose
Which always makes me sneeze.

The smell of gasoline and a match
Fills my nostrils
And I hear the whoosh of a fire
As the heat begins
To slowly enrapture the pan.

The batter pours slowly
Into four growing circles
Of off-white with brown dots.
They’re chocolate chip,
Daddy’s favorite.

She flips with such ease
While the bubbles surface
But don’t pop and go away
And I linger in the warmth
That I like the most.

After my parents split up,
I tried cooking on my own,
But my sorry little pancakes
Always burned
And Daddy didn’t like them.

Mommy didn’t want to help
Me make my breakfast, either.
So I stopped trying
And got a bowl of cold cereal
Instead.

[TABLE OF CONTENTS, LHS CLASS OF 2011 EDITION]