As I stir in the eggs, vanilla, milk and oil I tap the pancake batter box and
watch as the flour like substance swirls into lumps and forms the
gooey-like substance that will become our breakfast.
My Abuela used to make pancakes like this. Hers always were better than mine
even while she was on her oxygen tank trying to move around the kitchen
while dragging it behind her.
I let the flat pan sizzle the butter; you have to pour in the batter right on top,
to make sure you get the same buttery, crispy edges like she did.
This batch is different from hers. Hers was filled with love, mine with tears.
I watch as the fat drops become enveloped by the goopy, sizzling batter
but I continue through blurry eyes.
This is my Saturday morning tribute to her; so my children can still have a piece of her.
So I can still have a piece of her. I bury my sorrows in the pancake batter.
My pancakes still don’t taste like hers. Even though my daughter says they do.
It’s hard to live up to perfection especially when your heart yearns
for one more perfect pancake, that you will never have again.