Sun streams in through the barn windows and sets our favorite Christmas present - a solar powered, mechanized prism- spinning. It fills the kitchen with rainbows of varying sizes, wandering the walls and ceiling. I crack the eggs into the flour mixture on the food processor, admiring the bright orange color of the yolks, thankful for the millionth time this week that the hens have resuming laying. I whip the cream. Hunter is trying very hard not to eat all of the bacon before we sit down. You have three pans going on the stove, and Emmett is ladelling out batter for you to swirl and then flip to crepey perfection.
At the crepe table, personal preference is sacred. So I do not comment on the amount of cinnamon sugar, or the lack of fruit on anyone's plate, or the current trend toward rolling bacon up in the crepe (shudder). I experience the contrast of tart kiwi against syrupy sweet strawberry. I float away on a whipped cream cloud, in a rich, buttery ocean of deliciousness.
Then one of the spinning rainbows settles for a moment on Hunter's plate, and he alerts us all: "Look! I have magic bacon!!" Just as quickly, it is gone, and we train our eyes on the dancing rainbows. "Magic crepe! Magic kiwi! Magic Mama!!" Maybe it's the sugar high, or the sun-kissed disco quality the room has taken on, but we collapse in a fit of giggles, my heart bursting with appreciating for this very moment.
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