When my sons were little boys, weekends typically involved at least one pancake breakfast.
They’d watch as I mixed the batter and heated the skillet, and then they’d tell me what type of pancake they wanted. The plain version evolved to include versions of chocolate chip, blueberry, bacon, and sometimes all three together. We topped them with everything from butter and syrup to Nutella, peanut butter, and brown sugar.
Now that they are grown, we rarely eat breakfast together, and I can’t remember the last time I made pancakes. Although the recipe is simple, mixing the batter, melting the butter, and all the other steps can create a bit of a mess. So, if nobody’s asking for them, I’m not eager to make them.
But last night, my husband asked if we have any pancake mix. I started thinking about pancakes, about their fluffy deliciousness, the melty butter and sweet syrup, the guilty pleasure of eating something that is thinly-veiled dessert masquerading as a breakfast food.
And so, even though the sons who are living at home these days are still asleep and unlikely to venture into the kitchen before the crack of noon, my husband and I made pancakes this morning. They are delicious.
If the boys want some once they wake up, I’ll offer them the option of using the leftover batter to make their own. I’ll also volunteer to make some for them.
I suspect they’ll like the idea of doing their own cooking so they can make the pancakes just the way they like them. There’s a chance, however, that they’ll ask me to do the cooking, providing that I follow their specifications as to the amount of butter and the appropriate ratio of chocolate chips to batter. Which, of course, I will happily do.
Today’s cuppa celebrates pancake breakfasts and yummy memories. We can’t relive the past, but that doesn’t mean the good things disappear forever.