What in the World.

Lately, cooking seems to inspire me, more than anything else in my life, to be more inspired about everything else in my life. While cooking, I don’t necessarily feel like cooking more, but I always walk away with an additional nugget of wisdom; an analogy, a story, a lightbulb moment of understanding that, in today's case, makes me want to run to my mommy and say sorry.

I heard it was World Pancake Day today. 

I’ve recently become that person on your instagram feed whose meals are a matter of national importance. I can not so much as fry an egg without running to the ‘gramz for validation. Fortunately, I don’t fry eggs much. Unfortunately, the only thing I seem to cook with any (subject, untested, unverified) skill is: pancakes.

One of my brothers sat in the kitchen with me a few weeks ago, marveling at my delight in being the one handling the pots, pans and flour. He said, “How many times have I seen you in the kitchen in the last three years?!” And look at me now, wielding batter with relative ease. Even I didn’t recognize myself.

So when I heard it was World Pancake Day today – a fact I never bothered to verify for myself – I allowed myself to be cajoled into agreeing to making pancakes. Ha. My brother knew there was barely any persuasion on his part; rather, an excuse offered up to me like a fragrant offering of which I took more than a sniff.

I barked out purchase orders – which, though unfulfilled, only fueled in me a desire to compromise, create and dazzle. My pancakes were only a medium; I was the real star.

I mixed ‘secret’ and not-so-secret ingredients in random measure, trusting my muscle memory to remind itself how much each item weighed. I doubled my batter – nay, tripled it. I whisked and turned and improvised and when the first pancake was done a little caterpillar tested out new wings in my belly.

 

(Not today's pancakes)

I must have made about fifteen pancakes. I ladled batter in and watched the bubbles pop through. I waited about two minutes for each side to set perfectly. I’m not much of a mathematician but that would make about thirty minutes for each side, for fifteen (at least) pancakes.
I was on my feet for an incrementally frustrating hour and a half.

The first time I ever cooked for anyone, it had been my idea. Well, technically they’d asked. Boys, of course. Family, even – it was my cousin. 

“I can make yam?” I overreached. He said okay, and showed up with my boyfriend. What a lovely surprise.

So I forgot to measure out the right amount of water. I did not have enough palm oil, so I had to substitute with stew. The stew already had water... and so my asaro turned into a watery mess.

Whilst it was a-boilin’ (right along with my nerves) my cousin announced that he didn’t eat yam. Like, normally. He’d only said okay for me, he said. Since I’d offered, he said. And the next day, my boyfriend told me he’d had a running stomach after dinner.

  

I never cooked for anyone again.

 Kidding – I did. But I was never confident, never happy, certainly never eager to do so. 

Until World Pancake Day. 

I never thought I’d see the day when I’d hate pancakes. Every second that passed was a reminder of how arrogant I’d been. Or, had I been arrogant? I’d merely wanted to help. I mean, he called to tell me he was hungry! But, no, did he say hungry? He said “pancakes”, that’s all I remember. Is it even World Pancake Day?

Oh no, that pancake came out all wonky. Does he like chocolate in his pancakes? What if he doesn’t even eat them because he doesn’t like chocolate in his pancakes? He’d better eat them, after making me make them. Did he make me make them? Not everyone likes oat pancakes. How did I end up making oat pancakes for someone who wanted regular pancakes? And I’ve been here for an hour cooking and he might not like them! Why didn’t I make a smaller batch? But what if he does like them and the other brothers want some and there’s not enough to go around? And what if they hate them.

I went through every single emotion from the yam day all over again, even angrier at myself because I was only cooking for my brothers this time. It should not have been a big deal. It should also not have taken an hour and a half. I should also have figured it would take that long and planned accordingly. Why didn't I plan? Why don't I ever plan?? 

Etc.

The erring brother came in when they were mostly done, eyed them skeptically, picked two out and squinted as he chewed. I almost threw the pan in his face.

He ate the two, asked for syrup, and walked out of the kitchen – not before I had scrambled to salvage my bleeding pride: “If I’d used flour it would have had a different consistency.” He hadn’t asked. “Next time, better don’t ask me to make pancakes for you.” He chewed. “They’re chocolate pancakes.” That was evident. “There’s syrup in the cupboard!” He swallowed and offered, “They’re not bad. They’re nice.”

After he left, my other brother stayed. He ate the remaining pancakes his brother had left behind. “Do you want more?” I asked. He finished his mouthful and shook his head. No.

And then, I remembered my mother on Saturday mornings, making pancakes for her five ravenous growing children. I remembered how she never made more than two for each of us, and how I always thought she was mean.

I remembered how we stalked moodily in and out of the kitchen, banging the door shut to announce our displeasure at how long breakfast was taking.

I remembered how we never said thank you, we never said it tasted nice, we never said anything except, “Can we have more?” (No.)

And I thought how, a little company while she was slaving away for five children, a husband (and herself) would have made her feel so much less like an inadequate slave.

Neither brother said thank you tonight, and I know that if they had I would have snapped, anyway. My back hurt(s) from standing so long, and what’s more, I couldn’t even enjoy my (yummy) chocolate pancakes.

It’ll be a while before I offer anyone anything again.