In two weeks CJ, my 22-year-old kid, returns to the Kansas City Art Institute for their senior year.
I know. How?! I don’t know. Years and summers are fast. Days are slow. Sometimes hours are slow. And sometimes time means nothing.
As we do every summer, CJ and I started with a list of things we wanted to do, and have found ourselves in August, having done not a damn thing. I’ve migrained, traveled, and worked. They’ve made art, worked on their senior thesis, slept, and hung out with their significant other. So now we’re scrambling for some quality time.
These days, I’m hauling out to west St. Louis County for vestibular therapy, which will hopefully slow the migraines and my hypervigilence about when I’m going to next vomit. Having puked in public in Beverly Hills, I have reached my vomit apex and can do nothing more spectacular, so it’s time to find effective treatment for this bullshit. Twice I week I make the 40-minute drive to let my vestibular specialist make me queasy and off-kilter in the name of not being such a dizzy bitch in the near future.
And since I’m making that drive, and I'm trying to do some local tourism, I should combine the two, starting with CJ’s recent request for Swedish pancakes. There’s an Original Pancake House location near the dizzy clinic, so yeah! Let’s do that!
I haven’t been to an OPH in years, but I think I’m finally ready. My absence isn’t pancake-related. It’s Mer-related.
I met Mer on Twitter a billion years ago, and we just clicked. A social butterfly and lover of pancakes, she was the core of the St. Louis Fat Bitch Pancake Club, an organization in which fat bitches in St. Louis ate pancakes together.
Yes, it was the best club ever.
We spent time together outside of STLFBPC, sometimes hanging out at her place when her health made it impossible for her to go out, other times exploring pancake options around the city.
With our birthdays less than a week apart, we always met at one of the two local Original Pancake Houses to celebrate together. Apple pancake, extra whipped-cream—that was her order, along with as much, if not more, coffee than me. Girl married her shitty ex-husband in a Starbucks. That’s how much she loved coffee.
And yes, I’m using the past-tense. Mer died two years ago this month. I haven’t been to the ol’ pancake stomping grounds since. It hasn’t felt right to go without her. But Mer loved CJ, and would pitch a fit if I denied my child OPH Swedish pancakes on her account.
So CJ and I had a plan: let’s get pancakes, then go to my treatment appointment on Monday. And hey! Guess what’s also in the neighborhood. The butterfly house! Before starting school, CJ and I lived at the butterfly house! That kid was born loving nature, animals, and plants. And it was a lot easier than going to the zoo. Perfect. I don’t think we’ve been since before pre-K, though.
Know who else loved going to the butterfly house? Devil Baby.
CJ, their dad, and I all have ADHD in a variety of flavors. With my variety, if I have something scheduled that doesn’t have flexibility, like a dizzy bitch appointment, anything else I do that day also has to be perfectly timed and noted on my calendar so I don’t screw up and miss the appointment. Of course, before we left, I double-checked the hours at the butterfly house and learned that they’re closed on Mondays.
Fuck. Okay, we’ll do that on Thursday with my next dizzy appointment.
For some reason I didn’t make a similar check regarding pancakes. It’s a chain restaurant and they’re open every day, right?
Nope.
And that’s when everything went to shit.
CJ and I were in the car. I plugged in my phone and pulled up the map to see how long it would take to get to the pancakes. This is also integral to my sanity when there’s something scheduled.
Yep, no pancakes on Monday. They’re closed.
Fuck. Now what?
CJ’s ADHD prevents them from remembering anything unless it’s been the subject of one of their hyper-focus episodes, so while being able to recite the OPH menu, they had no backup restaurant suggestions. I’m a Libra with ADHD, which means I cannot physically force my brain to make a reasonable decision in the best of circumstances. When pressed for time and needing to stick to a schedule? God help us all because Devil Baby might as well be in charge.
Mer was definitely laughing at us. She and her son were also a carful of neurodivergence. She knew what it was like to be all aboard the Hot Mess Express.
Fuck it. I wanted to go to Songbird. I hadn’t been since they moved to their new location. CJ had never been at all. It’s Monday so they shouldn’t be too busy. Let’s go!
We headed west, just like we would do for clinic-adjacent pancakes. All’s well!
Except I made zero account for how much further south Songbird is from where we were supposed to be going. Take a look at these maps:
Readers, what the fuck is wrong with me? Because we arrived at Songbird and, as soon as we took a spot to wait, it was time to leave for my appointment. Did we spend an hour sitting in the driveway, trying to decide what the hell to do?
Probably.
I’m a responsible adult. I model well-adjusted behavior for my child. I have my priorities.
I cancelled my dizzy bitch appointment.
Because at this point, having brunch with CJ—on the verge of their senior year of college, having no idea what they could be doing and where they’ll be doing it in 12 months—was far more important.
Mer and I skipped our birthday pancakes in October, 2023. And I never saw her again. I will gladly pay a missed appointment fee along with my farm toast if it means having one more hour over breakfast with my favorite person.
But seriously, how is it I can navigate unfamiliar cities, and huge metropolises like Los Angeles, Chicago, and Boston, without any issues, but I can’t navigate the extremely easy small city where I live? No matter. Songbird was worth it. They started at Tower Grove Farmers Market when CJ was a baby. I’d stop on Saturday mornings and get one of their grilled cheese and honey sandwiches every trip, talking shop with owner Chris Meyer. Walking into their new space still felt like home.
CJ went traditional with The Combo, a grilled sourdough sandwich with bacon, a ton of white cheddar, a fried egg, honey, and sea salt. And a bowl of cheese grits on the side because I raised them right.
I can’t get away from the farm toast, which I’ve had every time I’ve been to Songbird. It’s a crumbly cornmeal bread, dipped in custard like French toast, served with seasonal jam dipping off the top (black and blueberry this time) and a dollop of whipped ricotta on the side. I topped mine with shaved country ham because I, too, was raised right.
We might lack a sense of time, but we have extremely good taste.
After lunch, since time was no longer important and place is imaginary, we went north to Left Bank Books. If we weren’t going to see bugs at the butterfly house, at least we could see this guy:
This is my favorite corner in the Central West End. Yes, partially because it has three of my favorite things: books, burgers, and ice cream. But also because each building on the corner of McPherson and Euclid—Writer’s Corner— has a bust of a St. Louis author outside. Along with Burroughs, there’s also Tennessee Williams, Kate Chopin, and T.S. Eliot. Don’t make me pick a favorite. I can’t.
These are things that, if they were located in cities I visit, I would make them a top priority to visit. And yet when I’m home, I sometimes walk into the bookstore without even saying hello to Bill and his bug. How many times have I visited his gravesite? Only once. And I didn’t even do a shot of tequila while I was there.
I’m really not a very good St. Louis writer.
Time is meaningless, and the basement at Left Bank is probably part of the cave system that runs under St. Louis, catacombs of darkness and light, with a massive used book selection. CJ disappeared down there like they’d stepped through the wardrobe to Narnia, eventually returning with a wheelbarrow of books.
Since I have a huge to-read list in an effort to stop doom scrolling my brain into gooey butter cake batter, I stayed upstairs and promptly fell into reading Monster of a Land by Lauren Hough. Because of course I’m going to read a travelogue inspired by John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley that stars a husky mix named Woody Guthrie. I’ll report back when I finish.
Days when time and space are as real as the happenings in Burrough’s Naked Lunch are my favorite, especially with CJ. We didn’t do what was scheduled or planned, but we had a perfect day. And this Thursday? Pancakes and butterflies. It’s on my calendar.
I need some coffee on whatever astral plane this is.
Wise decision. Sounds like a good pivot. We have a OHOP in town but haven’t been since my husband died. I’ll get there eventually.