I’ve eaten pancakes in the morning for nearly two weeks now. I can’t stop craving them. These aren’t crêpes or American pancakes. These are classic English pancakes. It’s been a strange few days, especially because eating a sweet breakfast for so long is weird. The question I asked myself on this thirteenth morning, whilst I stood over a jug of poorly made batter: Why am I eating this? Though, this is a rhetorical question to myself. I knew what I was doing. Other than the obvious that these are sweet and delicious. A breakfast typically reserved for the weekend. I’ve never met a maniac that could cook pancakes before work. There must be greater purpose. Thirteen days. There is a feeling trying to crawl out, deep within…
The provider of pancakes over the years has always been the important women in my life. I don’t think this is on purpose. Never the men. I remember my dad once bought microwave premade pancakes. For actual pancake day no less. Never again. When I was growing up I use to eat pancakes at my Mum’s house on one weekend, and then I’d be eating them at the Grandparents’ house the next. Grandma made them very differently to my mum. The flavours were objectively worse in an actual food eating sense, but where the former met the latter in the middle was in my tiny little heart.
I was a single digit age. Maybe encroached into the early double digits. At my grandparents I’d be eating pancakes cooked in oil, not butter, so they would end up greasy without the dangerous but delicious saltiness. The toppings would be a Jif Lemon (even though I had a choice of a real one, a strange choice I look shamefully upon) with sugar. This option I have eaten as an adult and doesn’t taste bad. However, the more frequent and classic option, which I don’t think I could stomach now, was tablespoons of golden syrup. I can so vividly remember sitting there bored at the table in the kitchen. Waiting on pancakes to arrive on my plate. To keep myself entertained I’d dunk a spoon into the tin pot of Golden Syrup, then just hold it above to watch it all slowly slide off back into the container. The movement of the thick liquid goo was satisfying to watch. I’d take time to stare into the bottom of the lid to see my own reflection. Sometimes I ate two pancakes, never less than, but quite often more. Depending on what was offered up to me. If I was spending a Saturday morning at the Grandparents’ house because my big brother and Dad were playing football; I’d get the opportunity to eat more than my fair share. That’s half a slice of the little area in my heart. Nostalgic, sweet, and consistent comfort.
The other half would be the pancakes my Mum would cook for all three boys. As adults they’re never here to share in the love anymore. Now just the two of us, when I come to visit I get to eat them with Mum. Though there is the pooch that gets fed a bite or two to share in the happiness. When we were kids you’d line up in the kitchen. Plates in hand ready to run off with a freshly cooked one. Then a second, and I rarely remember a third but I am sure there were times when that happened. How she manages to get them browned in butter. The texture so soft, and velvety. There aren’t any uncooked lumps of flour. Perfectly cooked on all sides. The shape is a round circle of the frying pan. Not some disfigured pathetic thing. Served up with maple syrup. Back then I can’t even remember the toppings. All I can recall is that Mum makes the best pancakes, and I can never replicate them.
On this thirteenth morning, the batter looks sad because I am on my own with nobody else here to make them. So they’ve turned out wrong, but I still cooked and ate them. The same as yesterday morning. When I had only these poor sighted eyes for the measurements. I have never been able to replicate Mum’s pancakes, but I proposed to someone who almost succeeds. I’m not being a harsh critic. You can’t compare decades to half a decade in terms of experience. You can’t replicate nostalgia that can make the worst food taste good. I know people that like a spam sandwich, I think purely because it is nostalgic. Thirteen days ago I asked my fiancée to make me pancakes as I wanted the comfort, and then she cooked them most days before leaving me on Tuesday. Now its Thursday, and I’ve got to stomach another Friday, and Saturday morning before the woman I now depend on the most returns. I’m not sure if I can get to fourteen days of eating pancakes anyway. Even though I have all these important women volunteering to cook them. The last thirteen days haven’t been normal. I wouldn’t usually be this blessed, as quite frankly its ridiculous to eat so many pancakes.
Nearly three weeks ago I got a phone call telling me that Grandma only had a few days left. I spent twenty four hours travelling from Santiago, Chile, all the way to Kent. I managed to get there not knowing that those few days would turn into nine before she died. I sat next to a small bed in the front room of her home on two occasions. She was a small woman so that part wasn’t strange. However, I had only just seen her at Christmas months before. Existing normally; for her now to be robbed of a voice, the ability to walk, or understand fully what was happening around her. The coldness of her hands. That felt so abnormal, and uncomfortable. When I was sat with her you couldn’t help but observe the four walls of that room which was surrounded by her life. Captured by photos hung on walls. Hearing the noises of all the other little humans that were there because of her, sat just over there in the garden a few rooms away. All those nostalgic things I often talked about existed in the same space. They felt frozen in a way.
I’ve only attended a single funeral before, and that was for her mother, my great grandmother. For me this felt like my first death, despite remembering how it felt in 2010 seeing that coffin so vividly in the church. Here we are sixteen years later, and as I looked at her all I could think of was how upset Grandma was back then. I didn’t see her cry often, but I remember it then very clearly. The death of your mother will do that to you. So recalling that memory, and knowing now it was Grandma who only had a few days left. The feeling that I was witnessing her last days. Weighed heavy on my heart in that moment.
I couldn’t help but notice thick books on the bottom shelf. When we were little one of those cookbooks, which at this point looked untouched for quite a while, contained the pancake recipe that she used every time without failure. I was never privileged to have an Indian grandmother to pass down a generational butter chicken recipe. I had boomer baby English grandparents, so I got passed down recipes for English pancakes instead. Her generation, and specifically my Grandma’s forté would be in cakes and baking. Her Victoria Sponge cake was always a treat. My favourite was the banana bread, which in the hindsight of adulthood was always very dry; however, that didn’t matter to me. A few years ago, I was greeted by her, and offered a slice of freshly baked banana bread. As I accepted, she gave me a precursor that she didn’t think it was any good, but she really enjoyed baking this one. That is what mattered to me, her enjoyment in the little things. To put it simply, what more is life about? This makes me happy, to know that she was happy, and I got to eat banana bread for the hundredth time. What made her happy, and myself, and kept me fed, were her pancakes she cooked upon request. Something that stuck with me was visiting them years later when I was legally defined as an adult. I noticed she had the pancake recipe from the cookbook stuck to the side of the fridge. This wasn’t a page from a book, but a small piece of scrap paper, scrawled with bad dyspraxic handwriting. Many years ago, finding the recipe in this thick, and chunky book was always a pain. So a clever solution was to copy out the instructions to make life easier. I was asked to write this out, and there it was all those years later. I hadn’t eaten those pancakes for years, so to see that came as a shock to me.
Whilst her breathing was laboured on this bed the week before last, I looked into her eyes, and told her everything that mattered. How she made me feel loved, and safe. Looked after by her kindness, and to summarise a lot of poorly worded mess, very simply that I loved her lots. I made my peace this Wednesday, and I got to see her once more on the Friday. By the following Tuesday she had died.
I have been eating pancakes for thirteen days. I thought I knew why. I partly understood. The truth is that I find it comforting. The delicious breakfast choice, which has some rooting in nostalgic lenses, providing a rare sort of seasoning to the dish. I started the daily ritual when I found out the news, and ate them the morning after seeing her. Then this morning I realised I forgot to talk to her about her pancakes. How I actually felt valued to see my pancake recipe copy still pinned to the fridge all those years ago. Sounds silly to write this, or to tell someone aloud, but the truth is seeing that made me feel valued in a harsh cruel world. The type of world where not nice people try to constantly discredit your worth. I feel a strange new feeling, which I haven’t experienced. Someone I was so close with gone forever, and I have a small pained regret that I didn’t tell them everything. A small human error that feels permanent. To grieve someone isn’t unique, but nobody lost my Grandma. What she meant to me. That loss is mine to hold. You may have your own grandma, you may share the same one with me, but your relationship with her, and the accompanying loss is different. So here I am in a world that feels a little bit more lonely. Unable to process or deal with these feelings. How are you meant too? So what I do is eat pancakes. What else are you meant to do? I haven’t woken up feeling rested since I got home. Going to sleep feels wrong and misplaced. How can I sleep in a world so unjust that I am given a grandparent, and have them taken from me.
Some of these days I have been eating two breakfasts. Starting with pancakes, and then supplemented by a savoury alternative. There is this feeling I can’t shake or hold comfortably. I worked hard to starve and walk distances to go down a jean size, and a half. After months of work its been reversed in thirteen days. The taste buds are craving the simplicity of some eggs on toast. Yet I don’t know what to do if I don’t wake up and eat those pancakes. So I do; and then sometimes I make the breakfast I was meant to have. I should take comfort in her death. When she married my Grandpa all she wanted was children, which she had, three to be exact. The other request was grandchildren, which is myself, and the five others. Her last nine days were spent being visited by them all. When I saw her she was peaceful, without pain, and looked comfortable. With a radio on to help her sleep. Strange enough she looked healthy, as I expected anyone who was meant to die in the next few days to look worse. As much as you can say this is the best death, to be surrounded by family, and to go out peacefully. The twisted pain in my stomach won’t go away, but that is for me to deal with in the best way that I can.
Fourteen days of eating pancakes.
