Pancakes

 

Hmmm, Nicolas Cage got me thinking of pancakes. I don't believe our mother ever made us pancakes. Maybe she was intimidated by our grandmother who whipped out Swedish crepes during holiday dinners, which was rare. Not the crepes, but getting together, sharing a meal with the whole family, even though Grandma lived across the street. My mom and grandma, my father's mother, did not get along. They never visited one another. In fact, I don't recall my grandmother ever walking inside our house. I don't know how Grandma normally got to work but sometimes she had to ask Mom to drive her there. The windows would frost up by the iciness in the car. Even as young as I was I noticed Grandma's tightening of her lips and statue like posture as we drove her to work. Thanksgivings were pretty awful, except for the food. We ate in silence then quickly left. Mom would open her first can of Old Style as soon as we got home. 

I like pancakes, except for the time I was on a date with my lookalike Victory Auto boyfriend, as we sat across from each other at IHOP. As we waited for our breakfast, "Bob," slapped my shoulder. What the fuck, man? Then I saw the cockroach skitter away. We still sat and ate the pancakes but that was the last time I went to IHOP. It was also nearing a close to my Victory Auto boy. I guess it was the cockroach (boyfriend, cockroach - take your pick) I didn't like. I still like pancakes. 

The very last time I saw my Aunty "Icky," right after the orange man told us all to drink bleach, she made us strawberry crepes (sans bleach) I ate at least half a dozen, they were so good, just like her mormor taught her. Too bad Aunty was a Trump loving MAGA, which didn't surprise me. She tormented me when I was a child, although I usually got her back. There was no love lost between us. During our last time together - my sister, my brother-in-law, Auntie and me, sat in her living room as I reminisced how I loved to "run away," to Grandma's house. I loved my grandma and though she was what some would describe as, "undemonstrative" and to some (like my mother) intimidating, I never hesitated to hug her or be with her. As I regaled about the past, my Aunty interrupted, "She never liked you coming over." The silence in the room was deafening, except for my heart which was shattering into a million pieces. I don't know why she felt she had to tell me this after decades had passed. It was truly the one thing I believed when I was a child. My grandmother loved me. As annoying and intrusive as I could be, I never got the idea she didn't want me around.

That was a million years ago. I never spoke to my aunt again and didn't mourn her death after she succumbed to Covid because she believed the lies that it was just a hoax. She never had children, which was a blessing. I never really understood why she hated me so much except- I might have one idea. Maybe she couldn't stand that her mother was more fond of me than her. Aunty was staying with her mother while her Navy husband was somewhere on a warship. There was Aunty frying dough balls, splattering oil everywhere in Grandma's pristine kitchen. There was Aunty in her short shorts, whining about weeding the garden, or, Aunty leaving the iron on while she painted her toenails. Grandma released her anger in a barrage of expletives in her native language. Then, Aunty took it out on me. Even decades later, the anger was there. 

For a long time after our visit I let her words crush me and I started to believe them, except- I knew who she was and I also remember the time my grandmother and I spent together, watching late night movies with a mandatory bowl of farina. I recall the Summer days we picked raspberries in her garden and she baked one raspberry tart for me. She smelled of earth, flour, vanilla and starch. 

The last time I saw my grandmother was right before my tenth birthday. Dad told me she wanted to see me so I walked the last walk (unbeknownst to me) across the street. She watched as I unwrapped an early birthday present, a piggy bank covered with hand painted flowers across its fat belly. I didn't hug her before I left but she nodded to me as I carried her gift home. I knew she was gone soon after because my father fell to his knees and sobbed as he held the phone to his ear. 

Funny where the thought of pancakes will bring you. 

*On a lighter note. A Nic Cage movie, 'Best Pancakes in the County,' coming out in November. Although, the movie sounds ominous. That guy. Lol. 

**On another note. I had no clue where this post was going as I wrote it. It was going to be a humorous analysis about Cage. Another time, Nic.