⏱ ~3 min reading
On Sundays, my mother baked honey pancakes. Not ordinary ones, but thick, casserole-like ones, with layers of pancakes and honey cream inside. It was Nikita's favorite dessert.
The kitchen smelled of honey, vanilla, and warm shortbread. Nikita hovered over the stove like a little bumblebee near a flower.
"Mom. How much longer?"
— Twenty minutes.
— How much time has passed now?
— Five.
— Oh.
Nikita sat down at the table. He looked at the clock on the wall. The hands moved terribly slowly. It seemed like they were standing still.
A minute later he ran up again.
— Mom. Can I take a look?
— It's impossible.
— Why?
Mom turned around. She wiped her hands on her apron. She sat down next to Nikita on the stool.
— Do you know what happens when you open the oven in the middle?
— What?
— The pancakes will settle. The heat will come out, the air inside them will blow out, and instead of a fluffy dessert, you will get a kind of flatbread.
— Will it completely spoil?
"It won't go bad. It just won't be what it could be.".
Nikita thought for a moment. He looked at the oven. Through the glass he could see the form standing there in the golden light, the top slowly turning brown.
— How many more are left to be opened?
— Until the timer rings.
Nikita sat down again. He looked at the clock. The hands seemed to freeze again.
— Mom. Why does time go so slowly when you're waiting?
Mom smiled.
"Because you're looking at it. Time doesn't like to be looked at. Then it goes even slower.".
— And if you don't look?
— Try it.
Nikita decided to try. He went into the room. He took a book — about a little elephant looking for his mother. He sat down on the carpet. He began to read — slowly, syllable by syllable, because he was just learning to read on his own.
An elephant was walking through the forest. He met a monkey. The monkey said, «Don’t cry, your mother will come soon.» The elephant met a parrot. The parrot said, «Go straight, you will see a path.» The elephant walked on. The path led to a clearing. In the clearing…
Day!
Timer ringing.
Nikita jumped up. He left the book behind. He ran to the kitchen.
"Mom! Already!"
— Already, son.
Mom took the pan out of the oven with a glove. The casserole rose high. Golden on top. A caramel crust on the edges. Real honey and vanilla in the air.
Nikita looked in.
— It didn't settle!
"Because you didn't open it. Thank you for your patience.".
"But actually, I was just reading about an elephant. And time flew by.".
Mom put the mold on the table. She brought a plate, a spoon. She cut off a large piece for Nikita — from the very center, the plumpest.
The first bite melted on my tongue. The pancakes were soft, the layers were precise, the honey was gentle, not cloying.
"Mom. What if I had opened it?"
— It would be delicious. But it's not.
Nikita nodded.
— I found a way. Like an oven — it's an elephant in a book. Like a queue — it's looking out the window. Like something else — it's something else.
Mom laughed—quietly, in a homely way.
"You already know the most important thing about waiting. You must not be empty in it.".
Nikita put another spoon. The pancakes waited their turn. And he waited too.
💡 Eating quickly means waiting slowly.