Growing up with sisters felt like living in a snake pit of estrogen. Though we’ve all mellowed with the decades, there are still times we tend to, shall we say, rub each other the wrong way. That all ended a few weeks ago.
One of my sisters was visiting along with her husband and young daughter. As a treat, I made pancakes for breakfast. I should mention that not only do I make them from scratch (recipe memorized), my stove has this really cool griddle module. No greasy frying pans tipping unevenly, yielding spotty/burnt elliptical pancakes, no sirree. Of course there is also an art to flipping them. Knowing just the right time to slide that spatula under, the quick wrist pronation, and voila.
As I was demonstrating my technique for my niece, I wanted to ask my sister if she used a griddle to make her pancakes. So I asked, “Has your daughter ever seen pancakes like this?”
My sister regarded the batch on the griddle and said, “Perfect? No.”
My heart stopped. Then it filled with love. That was hands down the nicest thing my sister had ever said to me. (Possibly the nicest thing she will ever say to me, but I’ll take it.)