Magic Butter Pancakes (Or How I Got Arrested at a Renaissance Faire)

The guy’s name was Moth. Or maybe that was just what he called his cloak.

We were on the far end of a Renaissance Faire that had… evolved. Less “turkey legs and wenches,” more “fire dancing and vendors named things like Burn Root and Spiral Wolf.” I hadn’t slept. I had butter. I had a portable butane griddle and a pouch of ground sunflower seed flour a woman traded me for a sketch of a frog.

That morning, I made these. Pancakes so soft the wind questioned its own trajectory. The butter browned itself. Someone cried. A man in chainmail said “this is enlightenment.” Then someone pulled the fire alarm. Did faires have those? Anyway, I left.

These are the closest I’ve come to recreating the moment.