It’s Saturday morning and I’m up before Donnie due to an early morning asthma attack. Although that was not fun, I’m glad to be awake, enjoying the sunshine spilling through the windows in the living room. We’re hopefully off to Ocean City today, maybe spending the night down there (thanks for Tim for allowing us access to their condo…).
I’ve gotten some more stuff done for the rescue/Hoppy Hour. I’m getting excited because we’re received a tremendous response from the businesses we’ve contacted and will have some awesome prizes for the auction, but I’m a little nervous about ticket sales. It’s still really early, but I just really hope we can at least get 50 people, if not more, out to this event. We need this to be a success–if not for our efforts, then at least for our morale…I am still hopeful. I hope that’s not a step towards disappointment.
Being up so early on a Saturday morning reminds me of family rituals long gone, specifically Saturday Morning breakfast. Although getting up/ready for school was always a struggle, I had no problem getting up and out of bed for weekend cartoons. Most Saturdays my mom would make breakfast, which was especially a treat since breakfast wasn’t really a “thing” in my house. I confirmed this with my brother awhile ago (who is 12 years older), to see if they ever had it when he was a kid. He related that most of his mornings were also sans breakfast.
So anyway, most of the time my mom would make pancakes using our reliable box of Bisquick (Growing up that yellow and blue box was always in the pantry…). Though she’d often make the standard round pancakes, sometimes she’d shake things up by doing different shapes or letters.
My mom used to spell my name in pancakes for me. Or little messages. Once she “wrote” my full name, which is impressive considering my last name had 10 letters (no, I didn’t eat them all…). She didn’t really use any special tools–just a mixing bowl with a small spout and an overwhelming amount of patience and creativity.
You don’t really appreciate the skill of pancake art until you’re old enough to start making them yourself. Now I understand why my mom’s were such a labor of love, especially when I find it difficult to get mine into half decent circles. When I was 6 I was impressed because she was able to spell my name. Now, 20 years later, I am touched at the painstaking time she took to let me know how much she loves me.