The Existential Pancake

For the first time since his garage videos, Malcolm felt a flicker of genuine enlightenment. It wasn’t about the pancake at all. It never had been.

The conference room of the Meridian Hotel bore an unsettling resemblance to the one Malcolm had fled three months earlier. Different furniture, different city, different people—but the same antiseptic lighting, the same expectant faces around a polished table, the same PowerPoint presentation with his name in the header. Only now, instead of quarterly projections for paper products, the slides detailed projected growth metrics for “The Pancake Paradigm” lifestyle brand, complete with merchandise forecasts and social media engagement strategies.

“We’re looking at a Q3 launch for the waffle iron with your signature quote embossed on the cooking surface,” said a woman with fashionably oversized eyeglasses and a vocabulary transplanted directly from an MBA program. “‘The batter of your potential awaits transformation.’ Trademark pending, of course.”

Malcolm nodded, his waffle-patterned robe suddenly too warm under the recessed lighting. They’d brought him coffee in a branded mug—his own face screen-printed on the ceramic, looking beatifically at a stack of pancakes. The publishing team had already commissioned cover designs for his book. The production company wanted to discuss a potential streaming series. Someone had pitched “Breakfast Philosopher”-themed retreat weekends at three hundred dollars per person, not including accommodations.

On his phone, seventeen unread emails demanded attention. The newsletter, which had begun as occasional musings typed in his kitchen, now required a content calendar and editorial team. The Sunday gatherings had grown so large that they’d moved to a rented event space with professional audio equipment and catered brunch service. His followers—he winced at the word—numbered in the thousands, each wearing identical robes, posting his quotes on their social media, hashtagging their breakfast photos with #ButterThySelf.

“Malcolm? Thoughts on the pancake mix partnership?” The woman’s pen hovered over her notepad. Behind her, the slide showed a mock-up of boxed mix with his silhouette on the packaging, surrounded by spiritual-sounding breakfast terminology.

He stared at it, seeing instead the pancake from that Sunday morning in his kitchen—the one that had collapsed into a sad, uneven disc. The one that had shown him his life. Rising. Falling. And now, somehow, rising again.

Rising toward what, exactly?

“I need a moment,” he said, standing abruptly enough that his chair rolled backward and bumped against the wall. “Just… continue without me for a bit.”

In the hotel corridor, Malcolm pressed his forehead against the cool window glass, looking down sixteen floors at people reduced to hurried dots on the sidewalk. His reflection stared back—beard neatly trimmed now instead of disheveled, hair professionally styled instead of tousled with farmer’s market products. The robe had been redesigned by an actual fashion consultant to “maintain authenticity while enhancing aesthetic appeal.”

He’d escaped one pancake cycle only to create another. There’d been the batter of initial ideas, the rising of unexpected success, and now the inevitable flattening under the weight of commercialization. Soon, there would be branded measuring cups and spiritual retreats where people would pay to hear him speak platitudes about breakfast. The pancake mix company wanted him to do commercials. The publisher suggested a multi-book deal. Someone had mentioned the word “franchise.”

Malcolm’s stomach clenched. He could run again. Disappear. Delete social media accounts. Change phone numbers. Find some new food item to base a philosophy around—maybe granola, or eggs Benedict.

Or he could stay, let it all expand, become a caricature of himself selling waffle irons with his face on them to people searching for meaning through kitchen appliances.

Neither option felt right. Both represented extremes—total rejection or total surrender.

Behind him, in the conference room, he could hear the murmur of voices discussing profit margins on branded syrup dispensers. Through the crack in the door, he glimpsed the PowerPoint slide showing projected “follower growth” through targeted social media campaigns.

And then, like batter hitting a hot griddle, it came to him.

The pancake wasn’t just about rising and falling. It was about becoming something else entirely. Something neither liquid nor solid but existing in its own category. Something that could only be created through transformation.

Malcolm pushed away from the window. He took three deep breaths, smoothed his robe, and returned to the conference room.

“I’ve made a decision,” he said, interrupting a heated debate about merchandise profit margins. “We’re changing direction.”

The woman with the oversized glasses blinked rapidly. “We’ve already initiated production conversations with—”

“No products. No merchandise. No retreats at three hundred dollars per person.” Malcolm’s voice was softer than he expected, but everyone leaned forward to hear him. “The Pancake Paradigm isn’t a brand. It was never supposed to be a brand.”

“But the growth potential—”

“Is exactly what I’m running from.” He sat down, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. “Here’s what we’re going to do instead.”

The Sunday gatherings transformed from pseudo-religious services into community breakfasts. The rented event space became a casual hall where people cooked together, shared meals, and talked—not about pancake spirituality, but about their lives, their struggles, their small victories. Malcolm abolished the robes and rituals, replacing them with simple potluck brunches and conversation.

The newsletter evolved into a community forum where people exchanged recipes alongside stories of career changes, life transitions, and personal philosophies. Malcolm still wrote for it, but as one voice among many. “Butter the Self” became a free PDF download rather than a hardcover book deal.

Some followers left, disappointed by the lack of structured spirituality or branded merchandise. Others stayed, relieved to shed the trappings of yet another commercialized self-help movement. New people came, drawn by the simple premise of breaking bread—or rather, pancakes—together without pretense.

The woman with the oversized glasses resigned from the project, mumbling something about “unrealized monetization potential.” The publisher withdrew their offer. The pancake mix company found another spokesperson.

Malcolm didn’t mind. For the first time, he felt neither rising nor falling but simply existing in a state of contented equilibrium.

On a quiet Sunday six months later, Malcolm stood in the community hall kitchen, spatula in hand. Around him, a dozen conversations hummed like bees in summer—a man describing his recent career change, a woman explaining her new art project, two elderly gentlemen debating the merits of different maple syrup grades.

Their voices washed over him as he poured batter onto the griddle, watching the familiar bubbles form and pop. A young woman approached, hesitantly offering him a jar of homemade blueberry compote.

“I thought this might be good with the pancakes,” she said.

Their fingers brushed as he accepted the jar, and they felt a spark – static from the dry air, but it jolted them nonetheless. An unexpected connection, small but genuine.

“Thank you,” Malcolm said, and meant it.

He flipped a pancake with practiced ease, no longer searching for metaphors or profound insights, simply appreciating the quiet satisfaction of making something warm and simple for others to enjoy. The pancake landed perfectly, golden brown and even. Not rising, not falling, but exactly as it should be.