On Sunday Mornings, and even sometimes on Saturday Mornings, my dad would make pancakes. It was a nice treat, I got it just about every weekend, and when I realized it was the weekend, I would be excited in advance. I’d usually wake up an hour or so before my parents did. On Saturdays, I’d watch Superfriends or some tripe on TV, and then, eventually, Dad would come down. On Sundays, the television fare for a child wasn’t particularly good, so I’d play with my Star Wars figures, or I’d wait.
“Want pancakes, Chrisser?” I was, at that time, never happy about being called Chrisser. Rhymed with Pisser, a word I knew and used by the tender age of about 8.
I remember a couple of times feeling lottery-lucky when I got pancakes two days in a row. He’d put applesauce in them sometimes, and Dad was contemptuous of the Bisquick recipe. No, he did it himself. Didn’t take any extra time, and you had pancakes with substance. I remember our house always felt cold in the mornings. I had a brown robe, and some Empire Strikes Back PJs. That would put me at 7 or 8.
Mom worked second shift. it seemed every other weekend. I looked forward to the weekends when Mom didn’t work. It usually meant that we’d get to go somewhere. (When I was about 14, it seems that mom couldn’t spend enough time at work, but that’s the way it always is with 14 year olds).
Dad got up first. I remember watching Sunday Morning with Walter Chronkite. It usually ended with something fairly reflective, footage of hummingbirds or streams or whatever. I looked forward to that. Sometimes Dad would put on Crossfire after, or at least that’s how I remember it. Our black and white TV occupied a variety of positions in our kitchen.
I got pancakes one at a time, as they came off the skillet. I didn’t need any butter, they were lightly fried with a tiny bit of butter. Sometimes they’d be crispy on top and almost liquid in the center. They always had more texture than what you get at Denny’s or just about any place other than iHop.
One morning, I was awake and Dad had cooked the first pancake. He had a cast iron skillet. That meant that the first one was always a crap-shoot, unless you were really sure that the skillet was hot. He would often as not simply preemptively pitch it. I was aghast at that! It might be terrible, but even so, the waste of an almost good pancake was a travesty.
The pancake feast would linger on for a while, Dad would feed me a pancake, cook one for himself, and eat them until the batter was gone. I usually had a glass of milk and a glass of orange juice.
Towards the end of the Sunday routine, on days she worked, Mom would come down the stairs and make tea. Until I was probably about 8, I wanted to sit in her lap at some point. She’d have a Lenders bagel, or Rye Crisp with cracker barrel cheese. She was always happy to see me. There was a recurring struggle in our house. Mom was convinced that, left to his own devices, Dad would take a really hot pan and immerse it in cold water, causing it to warp. More than once, a reminder to let the pan cool would be met with a fairly testy “I know, I know,” or something like it.
One morning I remember waiting for my pancake. I hoped that Dad would remember on his own to warm up the syrup. Often he did, and that detail made me feel really happy and loved. On days he didn’t, I was more disappointed than I should be. I would sit in agony if he hadn’t started heating the syrup. I wonder why it never occurred to me to ask….
If we live to be about 80, we only get 4,000 sundays in our lives. As children between 3 and 13 we only get 500 or so. It seems like a lot, but each day is precious. We won’t have another like it. I worry that I’m not doing enough to make Ruby and Jack feel beloved. I worry that I’m letting work, testiness and other things mount and get to us.
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