Chocolate Chip PancakesPosted: December 23, 2013
Chocolate chip pancakes. It’s all I can think of.
I want some traditions. I want something memorable. Chocolate chip pancakes at Christmas would make a good tradition. Don’t you think? We’ve got a start—we had them last year for the holiday.
Looking back, I didn’t think I grew up with any traditions. But on closer look, that’s not true. Our traditions weren’t anything we planned or made happen or cooked. They were about the people. My dad, for example. Three hundred sixty-four days out of the year, Dad was quiet and reserved, and you didn’t even know he was around. Christmas, he was a jack-in-the-box. He popped to life with his arms outstretched and a smile from ear to ear. He was the one waiting for my sister and me under the Christmas tree. Mama was there, too, but in the background. Dad was loud and happy pointing to the loot: “Look a here. Look what Santa Claus brought!” He only got oranges and firecrackers when he was a child. He stayed with us under the tree and played with our toys. A favorite family snapshot is Dad, Judi, and me under the tree with “our” toys.
He did the same with his grandchildren. He was the first to play with a toy pool table or push a bike around the living room, or pick up the Millennium Falcon. A favorite “grandpa” snapshot is Dad going first through a Winnie the Pooh segmented tunnel with toddlers watching.
As my children were growing up, we didn’t have memorable traditions. We’d go to Christmas Eve service at church, we’d open one gift on Christmas Eve, and we’d have the grandparents every other year. Life brought change—children grew up, divorce, death, more death. Traditions went by the wayside.
Now I want new ones. I want to be with my grandchildren every year. I want to read Twas the Night Before Christmas. I want ham and Big Cherry Salad. I want to add a Barbie a year to the Barbie Christmas tree. I want chocolate chip pancakes.
I want my grandchildren to remember chocolate chip pancakes.
I want my grandchildren to remember me.