Dear Blue Corn Pancake

Dear Blue Corn Pancake,

I didn’t know what to expect when I first saw you on the menu at the Phoenix Public Market. I had never heard of a blue corn pancake. I live on the East Coast, where corn is yellow and on the cob and pancakes come stacks.

The café was busy and noisy and distracting. Other options coyly called out to me. Quinoa bowl. Baker’s quiche. A Southwest breakfast mash up called The Devil’s Mess. But you, blue corn pancake, rose above the din. I couldn’t get my head around you, but I knew I wanted you. Could one pancake possibly be enough? Would you be blue? Would you be sweet and good? I was scared but took the leap.

Then, when you arrived just a few minutes later, my eyes grew wide. You were indeed one pancake, cooked in a generously buttered iron griddle, standing firm and fluffy with your blue corn goodness. You weren’t quite blue, but you were hot and delicious. Your golden exterior was slightly crispy from the sizzling pan. Inside you were fluffy like a cake but not quite as sweet. You were topped by a dollop of honeyed whipped cream the size of my fist, candied with bits of yellow corn, slowly melting and sliding into the vacuum of empty plate as I eagerly sliced into you.

Do you remember? What was it that made that moment so special? Was it the roaring fire against the cool morning on the patio? Was it the delectable collision of crispness and softness on my tongue? Was it the blue corn? Yes, I moaned and called out to God. This was the best blue corn pancake moment of my life.

And I will never, ever forget you.

Yours always,

Amy