to the wolves | the work of matt heft

I can’t whistle

I’ve never been able to whistle. Can’t snap my fingers either. Now, when I see you,  don’t be that guy who tries to teach me, like you’re saving my life. Like I’ve just been waiting for you to come along with the super-secret knowledge of how to rub my fingers together. I am quite aware of the technical aspects of both these activities. I am just sorely inept at them. 

But I can make pancakes like a motherfucker. Apple, blueberry, oatmeal, corn, zucchini (thanks Tatyana) – bitches it don’t matter I got that shit on lockdown. 
That being said, I would really appreciate some pancakes now. I’ve been working, moving, living. Moved back up to New England a few months ago and it’s taken me a few months to really get settled in. To build a home. Community. I’ve been  tattooing my ass off- making art, riding my 10 speed, you know the deal. And wouldn’t a big hot pile of flapjacks be a perfect break from all that? You gotta put butter on them- I may be a bit of a purist here- but I’m not too big on syrup. Tree blood is dope, don;t get me wrong, but I never really learned to appreciate it on pancakes. You know what though- my Pops makes homemade berry syrup and it is AMAZING. Not too sweet- you know how super sweet stuff will completely take over your tongue start drop kicking your teeth till they ache? Yeah I hate that.  But his syrup is good. Just right. Yup, hotcakes, and then work till you drop. As is my life, and I love it. Bottoms up yall. 

Posted on Oct 10, 2011

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