Pancakes with Baba

 I woke up at the same time as my brother Dylan, stepping out of my bed as I shoved off my blanket. I quickly made sure that he was up before he did the same. We walked through the large house, our young, small feet slapping on the wooden floor. The house smelled of the forest surrounding it. We bounced down the hallway, all traces of our recent sleep gone. We stopped at our grandparents’ door.

“You do it.”

           “You! I don’t want to.” We bickered with each other about who would sneak into Grammy and Baba’s room, wake them, and face the chance of incurring their wrath. More of a scolding, but we didn’t like it either way. “Fine! I’ll do it.” My brother, about five years old like I was, took on the job. He opened the door, and the smell of pine and perfume was overpowering. I crouched behind the doorpost. My hand traveled over the polished, smooth, wood out of my nervousness. I glanced around the spacious house, both excited to be sleeping away from home and sad to leave my parents and their welcoming grasp. The sight of my brother exiting the room made me gasp with anticipation. “D…” My lips formed a silent question, unwilling to escape my mouth. My inquiry was quickly answered as I saw my grandma, Grammy, and my grandpa, Baba, following him.

           “Hello, Marley! Good morning!” My grandmother greeted me with a smile.

“Hey, Marley. What would you like to eat this morning?” Baba said in his raspy baritone and Moroccan accent. He was a large and hearty man, like a gorilla.

“Pancakes, please!” I grinned, speaking in unison with my brother.

“I will get you your chocolate milk, Dylan.” At the time, whenever my brother and I woke up, Dylan would get his chocolate milk. We had a ritual. And that involved pancakes. All of us walked down the long corridor to the kitchen. My brother and I were still in our pajamas. Grammy was in a nightgown, Baba in his underclothes. They were both quite young for grandparents, in their early sixties.

We entered the kitchen, a white tiled room with a stove, oven, dishwasher, and all of the other things you would generally find in a kitchen. Some was scrappy, some was new. Baba stepped up to a cupboard to get ingredients, while Dylan helped himself to his milk. My grandpa was a chef; he enjoyed cooking and did it a lot. Most importantly to me, he was great at it! Grammy stayed in the kitchen, but I took Dylan to the couch in the living room. It was about five minutes before it happened. Click. Hiss! A drawn out sizzle reached my ears and a smell brought on the wings of angels reached my nose. I put down my toy cars and trains and I rushed to the open entrance of the kitchen. The smell was even stronger there, and I reminded myself to close my mouth. On a pan over the stove, round globs of batter were bubbling.

“Those look soooo good,” I moaned. I knew I was in for a treat. I almost never got to eat pancakes at home. I stomped in excitement.

“Have a seat,” Baba motioned.

“Then, we could eat! Ha! That rhymes,” I replied. I sat down willingly, plopping in a chair at the front of the room. I sat and I waited, which is not something I did often. I waited until those pancakes turned golden. I moved to the dining room just as a plate with two hot and fresh pancakes was placed in the center of the table.

“Mine!” I called out, hoping to stop any scavenging twin brothers from grabbing the plate first. Just as I thought that, Dylan came rushing in. I quickly snatched the plate up. I knew more plates were being brought in, but I didn’t care. I wanted to dig in. Taking my fork and knife in my small hands, I began cutting up my soft, bready breakfast. By the time I was done and everyone else had sat down and gotten their food, I was practically drooling at the sight of the spongy inside of the dish. I took the syrup, and soon my pancake was drowning in it. I smiled at my tablemates, and when they smiled back, I swear I could feel warmth not only emanating from the pancakes, but from the joy that we all felt. I raised my first bite to my mouth, and when it entered, the explosion of flavor and sweetness was electrifying. I was in no mood to savor my food. After that first bite, it took all I had to not stuff whole pancakes in my mouth. That meal gifted me happiness. Baba might not be with me anymore, but I sure can remember his pancakes!