Some people look in the mirror and become aware of genetically familiar crow’s feet, a double chin, or pattern baldness. Some people hear a generational echo when chastising their mischievous spawn in frustration.
But me? I see reflections of my mother in my own handwriting, in my tendency toward workaholicism, in a love of inappropriate jokes, and an obsession with dessert at breakfast.
Mom didn’t like to cook so we ate out. I ordered pancakes with butter and maple syrup. If the syrup were served cold, even better, because that’s how it had been in grandma’s kitchen. Utilitarian, fridge to table. Mom’s favorite breakfast by contrast was fluffy blueberry pancakes with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top.
I don’t eat breakfast frequently, but my cooking selections always skew to mom’s influence: Belgian waffles heaped with strawberries and Vanilla Bean ice cream, blueberry pancakes under a dome of French Vanilla – or my favorite – chocolate chip pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse with a scoop of Cookies and Cream on each ear.
Wish she could see me now.