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“Careful… careful…” cautions Pok, warily walking behind his five year-old son who is carrying a teetering tray of food down the hallway towards the bedroom.
“I’ve got it, Dad!” Riz responds with an exasperated eye roll. “I can do this!”
“It’s just that you’ve filled the orange juice all the way to the brim, and- whoa!” Pok darts out a hand and steadies the tray as it begins to tilt, saving the tray from completely collapsing, though the orange juice splashes over the toast.
“Oops,” mumbles Riz. “Maybe I don’t got it.”
“No, it’s alright. Keep going, we’re almost there. I’ll get the door.” He dashes ahead and pushes open the bedroom door, revealing Sklonda laying back in bed, checking the news on her crystal. At the sight of her boys entering the room, she puts the crystal down and shifts into a sitting position.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!” shouts Riz, and he excitedly begins to run to give her a hug, completely forgetting the important task at hand.
“Riz, wait!” shouts Pok, but it’s too late; the orange juice sloshes over the rim of the glass before the glass completely tips over, spilling and soaking the pancakes, eggs, and sausage.
“...Oh!” Riz looks at the mess in his hands and then up at his mother, who has her hands pressed to her mouth in shock. “I’m sorry, Mommy!” he blubbers, the large tears forming in his round eyes. “I messed up your breakfast and now you won’t have a good Mother’s Day and it’s all my fault-!”
Immediately Pok swoops in and takes the tray from Riz’s unresisting hands, setting it on the nightstand while Riz stands in the doorway and begins to bawl.
“Riz, sweetie, it’s alright!” coos Sklonda, moving to get out of bed.
“No! You’re- you’re supposed to stay in bed and have break-breakfast and op-open your cards and pr-presents!” shouts Riz, still crying.
“Then how about you join me while I open up my cards and presents and Daddy can mop up the OJ?” asks Sklonda, giving Pok and sly wink. He answers it with a subtle nod and carries the tray back to the kitchen to clean up the mess.
Riz sniffles. “Can I?”
“Of course, sweetie! Come here and crawl under the covers with me!” She lifts up the sheets and pats the bed. Wiping snot from his face on the back of the hand, Riz hurries over and crawls in next to her, giving her a big hug.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“Oh, it’s alright, Riz. It’ll be OK. It’s just breakfast.”
“My teacher says that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
“And she’s right, but it’s OK, really! It’ll still be yummy!”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive! Now, I heard that you made a card for me at school, is that right?”
Riz’s ears perk up, the orange juice fiasco immediately forgotten. “Yeah! Let me go get it for you!” He scampers out of the bed and room – nearly knocking into Pok as he returns with a fresh tray – and runs to his bedroom where he grabs the card from within his desk.
“Here, you go!” he shouts, scurrying back into the bed and passing a red construction paper card coated in glitter and marker scribbles over to her. “I drew you and me in the park!” he explains, pointing at the green figures next to a blue circle with blue flowers surrounding them.
“Riz, it’s beautiful!” gasps Sklonda, and she pulls Riz in close to give him a hug and a kiss on the top of the head. The little boy beams.
“Did you want help with those pancakes, kiddo?” Pok asks with only the slightest hint of apprehension in his voice.
“No, I’ve got it!” Riz says confidently, cracking an egg into a bowl. He manages to get most of the shell out. He’s six years old and this year he’s been promoted from “orange juice-pourer” to “pancake-maker” for his mom’s breakfast, and he’s dressed in an apron that already has fresh stains on it and Pok has no idea how he’s managed that. Riz cautiously measures out the pancake mix into the bowl, then decides that more pancakes are better and adds a little more. Lastly he measures out the milk and adds it in. Now it’s time to mix it all together! He starts off strong, but after a minute or two of stirring, his little arms get tired. He peers into the bowl; it’s still pretty lumpy, but he convinces himself that those are probably air bubbles and it’ll come out fine once he starts cooking.
He glances over at the stove where his father is frying up the eggs.
“Dad! I’m ready!” he announces. Pok steps over and sees the poorly-mixed bowl and stifles a wince.
“Well… I’m still cooking the eggs, so maybe take another minute or two to stir up the mixture? Uh… It’ll make the pancakes fluffier.”
“But my arm’s tiiiiiired!”
“Do you want me to do it?”
“No!”
“Then you’re going to have to wait until I finish with the stovetop,” warns Pok.
“Fiiiiine.” Riz lazily moves the whisk around in the bowl until Pok finishes up and makes space for Riz at the stove. Riz carefully brings his bowl over next to the stove and Pok hands him a ladle.
“I’ve already got the flame at the right setting, and the pan is hot, so you’re ready to go. Be careful, now.”
“OK, Dad!” Riz scoops out a ladleful of batter and pours it into the pan.
“Oh!” cautions Pok. “You want to keep all the batter together in the pan, not spread it around.”
“Oh. …I’ll just add more, then,” says Riz, pouring another scoop into the pan. “Mom can have a big pancake!”
Pok smiles nervously and keeps an eye on where his son’s hands go around the hot stove. It’s his first time trying to cook; Riz insisted that he wanted to make sure that his mom’s Mother’s Day breakfast was special this year, and Pok, having relented, decided that pancakes were probably the best option to start him out.
“Do I flip it yet?”
“No, not yet. Wait for it to start bubbling.”
Riz nods and watches the pan like a hawk, spatula at the ready to turn the pancake at the first sign of a bubble.
“There!” he cries out, pointing at a little bubble in the pancake. “Can I flip it now?”
“Let’s wait for a few more to show up.”
Thankfully for Riz, his dad soon deems it ready to flip and Riz shoves the spatula beneath the pancake and lifts it up. The pancake is too large, however, and it flops over the sides of the spatula, the batter dribbling back into the pan with a small hiss. Riz looks disparagingly at the broken mess in the pan and then back at his dad.
“Oops, looks like it was a little too big,” Pok informs him. “That’s alright, we can try again. There’s plenty of batter.”
Riz nods and scrapes the clumps of cooked pancake onto a plate and measures out another scoop of batter, this time centering it in the pan. When it bubbles, he slides the spatula beneath it and grins when it fits snugly on the spatula. He then pauses, trying to figure out the best way to flip it, and looks back up at his father, puzzled.
“It’s a little flick of the wrist,” hints Pok. “Would you like me to help you turn it?”
“No… I can do this.” Riz nervously takes the spatula in both hands and twists the handle – too slowly, however, as the pancake slides off the flat of the utensil and flops cooked side-down into the pan. Determined, Riz tries again, scooping up the wrinkled pancake and once more grasping it with both hands before tilting the spatula. It plops in the pan, folded in half.
Riz is six now, though, and he’s learned lots of patience in the past year. He turns to his father, fighting back tears of frustration. “I’ll do it again.”
“Alright,” he says patiently.
And so Riz did, over and over again, slowly learning how to flip the pancakes until at last he’s got a semi-decent-looking stack on a plate. Sure, some are a little dark and one or two might still be a bit sticky in the middle, but that’s what copious amounts of butter and syrup are for.
Pok takes the eggs (now cold – he kicks himself for cooking them first, but oh well) and plates the breakfast. Once more Riz insists on carrying the tray, but this time he goes slower and successfully carries it to Sklonda who is sitting expectantly in bed. She gives him a kiss on the forehead and a big hug as he passes the tray over to her without spilling a thing. Once more he snuggles under the covers with her and she passes him bites of the food. He thinks it’s pretty tasty.
Riz is seven and Pok watches from a distance as he makes his way around the kitchen, effortlessly cracking eggs without getting shell in the bowl and whipping up the batter until it’s silky smooth. He tosses in some blueberries as a fun treat and then turns on the stove by himself. He expertly flips the pancakes when they’re ready, and soon a beautiful stack of pancakes waits off to the side as Pok works on the eggs. Riz watches as his dad fries the eggs, hoping that next year he can move to egg duty.
He’s got another handmade card for her, this one adorned with stickers and more drawings of her, and this year he’s got a small gift that he made for her: a hand-painted mug announcing the world’s greatest mom that he painted in class last month. Sklonda beams at the gift and insists it’s now her favorite mug, and will use it whenever she has coffee. Riz grins; it’s been the perfect Mother’s Day.
At age eight Riz makes the perfect pancakes (chocolate chip) and fried eggs while Pok pours the coffee (into her favorite mug) and orange juice to accompany breakfast. Once again he’s got a handmade card for her; this time it’s layers of nice, thick paper cut out into flowers and a smiling photo of Riz inside. He even used his allowance to buy her a nice candle (coffee-scented) as a gift that he wrapped all by himself.
Sklonda kisses him on the forehead and thanks him for the wonderful breakfast and gifts. Everybody is smiling, everybody is here. Riz couldn’t be any happier.
There’s no pancake mix and Riz isn’t sure about the quality of the eggs. Things have been… tight… since his dad’s funeral, but he’s not going to let that get in the way of tradition. He does a Fantasy Google check on how to tell if eggs have gone bad, and thankfully they seem to be alright. He fries up the eggs and makes the coffee for his mom, but the tray looks so lonesome with only eggs, toast, and coffee. He decides to pour a bowl of cereal and bring the milk with him so she can have a more substantial breakfast. He slips a handmade card – nothing fancy, just a few nicely-drawn flowers in ballpoint pen and a small poem he wrote – underneath the plate and makes his way to the bedroom. He manages to open the door and there’s his mom, rolled over and checking her crystal.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” he announces, and he catches her wiping away a tear from her eye as she straightens up and puts away her crystal.
“Oh, Riz, you didn't have to-” she begins, but Riz’s smile stops her from saying more.
“Breakfast in bed for the world’s greatest mom,” he says, nodding towards the mug full of coffee. “Who am I to break tradition?”
He places the tray on the nightstand and gives her a hug.
“I know you probably feel too old for this, but would you like to join me under the covers and share breakfast with me?” she asks.
“Sure thing, Mom.”
He crawls into the cold, empty half of the bed and lets her give him bites of egg and toast.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get you anything aside from the card,” he apologizes, but Sklonda puts up a hand. “I love it, Riz. It’ll go with all my others. I don’t need anything more than you today, alright?” She hugs him tightly and he can feel her body shaking. “I don’t need anything more than you,” she repeats, voice quavering, and Riz can feel the hot tear brush up against his cheek.
“Of course, Mom. I’ll always be here for you. I love you.”
“I love you, too, sweetie.”
“Do you want to visit Dad later on?”
“...I think I’d like that,” she whispers.