When I was little I figured pancakes were really fancy breakfast items. Like, if you were a millionaire and had breakfast brought to you each morning in your huge, four-poster, Daddy-Warbucks bed, probably what was on the tray was pancakes (and bacon and orange juice and a little pitcher of cream). Whenever Mom made pancakes I felt wealthy.
As a grownup who can actually read recipes, I now realize that pancakes (as you might suppose) are the refuge of those who only have two eggs and a bit of milk left in the fridge, and more than one person to feed. (Or even only one egg, if you use my recipe.) Pancakes, flapjacks, hotcakes...the names suggest blue-collar, hardworking people like lumberjacks, railroad men, and farmers. Not precisely Daddy Warbucks.
Now, I don't have a clear enough memory of what it was like when I was little to know whether we ate pancakes because Mom was short on eggs or simply because us kids loved them. It doesn't actually matter--because my parents managed to make pancakes (with imitation maple syrup, or karo syrup, or honey, or peanut butter, or...) so fun and special, I still remember them fondly.
Yesterday we had to stay home from church because the Husband was on call and chained to his laptop. So he played his guitar and we sang to Jesus because, as Miss Boo put it, "He's the strongest AND the smartest, He's even stronger than Me!" (She went on to observe that He's the only God, which made Mama breathe a little easier that the constant Bible-story reading is at least making a slight impression.) And we had pancakes for breakfast.
I looked around at my happy children and husband, and ate my pancakes, and I felt wealthy.
Thank you, Jesus, for being stronger than Me.
Cheers,
Breanna
As a grownup who can actually read recipes, I now realize that pancakes (as you might suppose) are the refuge of those who only have two eggs and a bit of milk left in the fridge, and more than one person to feed. (Or even only one egg, if you use my recipe.) Pancakes, flapjacks, hotcakes...the names suggest blue-collar, hardworking people like lumberjacks, railroad men, and farmers. Not precisely Daddy Warbucks.
Now, I don't have a clear enough memory of what it was like when I was little to know whether we ate pancakes because Mom was short on eggs or simply because us kids loved them. It doesn't actually matter--because my parents managed to make pancakes (with imitation maple syrup, or karo syrup, or honey, or peanut butter, or...) so fun and special, I still remember them fondly.
Yesterday we had to stay home from church because the Husband was on call and chained to his laptop. So he played his guitar and we sang to Jesus because, as Miss Boo put it, "He's the strongest AND the smartest, He's even stronger than Me!" (She went on to observe that He's the only God, which made Mama breathe a little easier that the constant Bible-story reading is at least making a slight impression.) And we had pancakes for breakfast.
I looked around at my happy children and husband, and ate my pancakes, and I felt wealthy.
Thank you, Jesus, for being stronger than Me.
Cheers,
Breanna
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