Today was not the day I thought it was.

I thought today was Shrove Tuesday, something I know little bout.

The banner hanging from the Episcopalian church down the street says there will be pancakes for dinner and that is all I need to hear.

I heat the griddle and whip up some batter, declaring that we too will be honoring this tradition.

There is an art to making pancakes and it is all about the bubbles.

I gauge them while my husband sets the table.

I garnish the plates with seashells in an attempt to be fancy but remove them before he can raise concerns about salmonella the way he raises concerns about things like sanding lead paint ( wear a mask ) and using chemicals (ventilate the room.)

The world is a dangerous place. A place I free fall through while my husband navigates the safety net below and urges me not to look down.

“Hey!” I proclaim after we finish with the pancakes, flour covering most of the kitchen, batter hardening on the counter, dates and numbers running through my head, “Shrove Tuesday isn’t until…”

“Two weeks from now” he finishes with a mischievous grin licking syrup off of his lips.