As a kid living with my dad, breakfast was usually one of two things: cereal or pancakes. On pancake mornings, he’d make three pancakes from the original Aunt Jemima mix, cut them into bite-sized pieces, and drench them in syrup. Sometimes there were eggs or bacon too, but for me, it was always about the pancakes.
These days, every other weekend, I slow down and make myself a batch. I still put three pancakes on my plate. It’s a small ritual that transports me back to those quiet mornings in the kitchen with my dad. It’s a little reminder that some of our fondest memories aren’t built around grand occasions, but around ordinary moments we’re lucky enough to carry with us.
This isn’t my first post about Saturday pancakes. In fact, one of my last posts from a few years ago was exactly this! I don’t know, I think every time I make pancakes I feel like I’m honoring my inner child. She would walk around the house in shorts and no shirt because that’s what her daddy did.
A Note to Self
The smallest rituals often carry the biggest memories. Keep making the pancakes.
Life of Neu 