Pancake Remains and Cake Batter: From the Mom Tribute Diaries

There were so many things to love about Mom.

She was sweet, wise, kind, generous, and had a knack to make anyone in her presence feel nurtured almost instantly.

I was lucky to have her for sure, and I never have to search for positive words to describe her when someone asks.

Up there in the top regions of her awesome list though, were her cooking skills.

Boy, could she throw down.

And thinking back, one of the things I really appreciated about that part of her was she never tossed that fabulousness around with ego. It was always done with love.

So many happy memories from my childhood are connected to Mom’s food. And I don’t even have to include the serious stuff that she brought North from her Southern kitchen, like her baked macaroni and cheese, or Hoppin’ John (black-eyed peas and rice cooked with hamhocks), fried chicken, collard greens, bread pudding or sweet potato pie.

All of those things were incredible, but she could impress me with far less effort.

The Pancakes

My parents were absolute creatures of routine and habit. Four out of five of the workday breakfasts Mom would cook for Dad involved grits, eggs, and some kind of breakfast meat.

On the rare occasion he’d ask for something other than grits, she’d make pancakes.

I’d like to consider myself a pretty decent cook these days, but let me tell you, I’ve been chasing the taste of Mom’s pancakes for years, and I just never seem to get there.

I should’ve paid more attention to what she did.

I just know they were not too thick and not too thin, moist yet perfectly browned, perfectly sweetened with just enough maple syrup, and (so typical of my mom) always served cut into bite-sized pieces to make the eating easier. (I can’t help but do the same for my own family today, which always gets a laugh).

I can remember so vividly back when I was a little girl, that Dad would always have leftovers on his plate from pancake day, and Mom would always leave them for me to finish. It was the best!

I remember waking up for school just as Dad would be leaving for work, being sad to see him go, but being oh so happy for what he was leaving behind. Pancake remains for me!

The Cake Batter

And that’s not the only unfinished meal presentation of hers that I cherished.

I can’t forget about Mom’s cake batter. Didn’t matter which cake.

She’d always call to me from my room in the back of the house to either taste test her latest concoction or finish licking the bowl where it began.

 I never had a problem with either task.

It was always hard to believe that the buttery, sweet, pudding-like batter could ever turn into something better than what I was tasting, but boy did it ever. To be able to enjoy the humble beginnings and the grand finales of any of Mom’s cakes was simply divine.

Even her mistakes were fun to eat.

She knew my favorite cake in the world was Red Velvet cake with cream cheese frosting. She’d make one from scratch for me, a three-layer one at that, for many of my birthdays.

One year, she ran out of food coloring, but didn’t want to disappoint me, so she just kept forging ahead. The final product was a reddish-orangey velvet cake to say the least, but I wouldn’t have cared if it was turquoise. It was still so good!

The Main Ingredient

I could write tons of pages describing the wonderful foods that filled my home and belly as a child. Except for the occasional rutabaga, pig feet or okra dish (even Mom wasn’t perfect), they were all pretty delightful.

What I am thankful for the most though, is the ingredient that made repeat performances at my childhood table, and one that I need no cookbook to recall — love.

I hope and pray it shows up as often in the meals that I prepare today.