When I was a kid my mother usually made pancakes on Sunday morning. She served them with sausage or bacon and fruit. The plate was slathered with syrup and butter—as well it should be. But nowadays, in deference to my bathroom scales, I don’t eat the carby, calorie-laden flapjacks very often.
Those Weekend Pancakes
To make those Sunday pancakes, I now realize Mama had to get up earlier than usual—though it was her day off. In addition to making breakfast, she put the roast in the oven for lunch. She saw to it that the family was appropriately dressed and out of the house on time for Sunday School and church. She always wore a hat with a perky feather, or two, and a thin, mesh veil. Hosiery had a seam running up the backside, that had to be checked for straightness from time to time. White cotton gloves in the summer (or black in the winter) completed the 50s look.
More Pancake Memories
Having finished off his pancakes, my father would don his Sunday suit and felt Fedora. But first the hat was whisked down with a brush in the event some lint had dared to fall on it since the previous weekend. Our Oldsmobile got the same tender treatment. It was spotless for the special day, that began with a stack of homemade pancakes.
Today I still enjoy weekend pancakes, though I disallowed myself such things during 2020. I feared coming out of COVID confinement looking 5 years older and 10 pounds heavier. But now I’ve returned to cooking my own griddle cakes—usually from scratch, which is no more trouble than adding ingredients to a boxed version.
When I eat Sunday brunch at a local restaurant, I sometimes feel compelled—for old time’s sake—to order pancakes. But too often they’ve been disappointing. I can tell you where to find lots of average to awful pancakes in town. But I’ve yet to find a batch that I feel really good about. Perhaps readers will help me widen my search.