Part of my parents’ custody agreement was that my sister and I went to my dad’s, about an hour south of our place in Carney (an older suburb just across the city line from Baltimore), every other weekend. One of the highlights of that weekend, for me, was the one morning when he would make pancakes. Sometimes it was Saturday, sometimes it was Sunday, but almost every weekend we were there my dad made pancakes.
I love pancakes. My stepfather, with whom I lived with my mother, my sister and my stepsister, also regularly made pancakes. Pancakes are my breakfast of choice for my birthday, typically prepared by my stepfather, because I always woke up on my birthday morning at home.
But those pancakes made by my father every other weekend, something was special. He doesn’t really cook, though he’s always baked bread rather irregularly. His two specialties are super-spicy, homemade cheese-its, and pancakes. Those two items pretty much constitute my earliest food memories.
It wasn’t until I was an adult I found out my dad never really ate the pancakes*. They were just for my sister and I, because we loved them.
*Holy crap I just wrote the word “pancakes” seven times in four short paragraphs.