Enjoying the Small Things

Enjoying the Small Things

Breakfast for Dinner: The Best Buttermilk Pancakes Ever

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When I was in college, I lived with my grandparents–in a light blue house on Dorothy Lane where at the same time every morning, breakfast was served on the same lap trays in the same chairs while we watched the same news programs in the living room. When we finished our breakfast, the dishes were washed while my grandma hummed the same tunes, the dog was taken out to the same patch of grass, my grandpa retreated to his office where he’d begin his ham radio routine at the same time every morning, and my grandma would start a load of wash–often with just a few dish towels and whatever she could convince me to add to it–simply to continue the pattern of sameness. While their younger years delivered thrilling adventures–living abroad, mission trips to far off lands, writing and speaking and entertaining–in the last chapters of their life, they clung to the comfort of daily routines in a small country town where “going out” meant one of three things–Hutch’s Grocery Store, Weatherwax Drugs or Streeters Hardware. Instead of a downtown, the hub of Spring Arbor, Michigan was (and still is) its college campus and the Free Methodist Church in which its founding principles were rooted.

For three years, the steady rhythm of that small time life and the dependable routines of my grandparents’ home grounded my lost yet searching heart, although at the time I complained about the boredom and joked that the only excitement that town offered was when someone hit a deer on M-60. By that standard, Spring Arbor was practically Burning Man. What I realize now and wish I could have appreciated then though, is that my grandparents’ seemingly small town predictable life was anything but monotonous. In fact, it was magic, laden with intentional rituals that put jeweled crowns on otherwise ordinary events–the way my grandma used the good dishes every day and served ketchup in tiny bowls with miniature spoons, the way they huddled together before the sun rose to read scriptures and pray for their grandchildren–out loud, by name, the way they planned an afternoon drive to the orchard to pick up September apples as if it was a much anticipated annual road trip (it was), the way my grandma ironed her slacks and wore leather pumps to head to a coney island dinner at the A & W. They took their little ordinary life in a small house in a small town, and they made it grand by playing the hand they had been dealt with such creative thought and intentions of meaningful connection. The moral of the story: They won the game.

I could write pages of the cherished rituals they passed down to me, but today I write one because I pulled it out of my memory box this week and made it a part of our own home–my great  grandpa’s buttermilk pancakes for dinner. We had them once a week for dinner when I lived with my grandparents, and even though I couldn’t grasp then the meaning of all their rituals, when I came home from classes and saw a buttermilk carton and electric frying pan on the counter, I knew what was coming was special. And while there’s so much I’ve sadly forgotten about the three years I lived with my beloved grandparents, I remember everything about buttermilk pancake nights because they were different from the rest–they were special.

Because my grandma wanted us to eat them hot and so she could be with us while we ate, she poured the pancakes right at the table, setting up her electric frying pan at one end so could she could cook and eat and talk and serve us without leaving the table to flip a pancake or pour another on the griddle. Moms spend their whole lives trying to figure out how they can do three tasks at once. I guess you finally figure it out when you become a grandma.

I brought the griddle to the table this week, telling my kids that my grandma did the same. I knew just how the batter should be bubbling before I flipped a pancake because my grandma showed me how. I threw out the first pancake even though it looked perfectly fine because my grandma always threw hers out, claiming the first ones are “horrid.” And, just like my grandma did, I ate my first pancakes with butter and syrup but saved the best one for last–a spoonful of brown sugar piled on top, hollowed out to make room for a puddle of cream. “Luscious,” she called that last one.

It’s been a long time since we’ve eaten breakfast for dinner, but as I told my family the story of how I used to do it every week with my grandparents, I remembered perhaps the greatest power of all in ritual…the ability to bring to life what you miss–even just for a moment–and the connection to something bigger.

With no further ado, buttermilk pancakes from the recipe of L.D. Gates from Mesick, Michigan. He made them in a cast iron pan on an old wood burning kitchen stove. Mine will never taste as good.

I like to keep the batter more buttermilky than flourish (two adjectives I just made up, thank you) because I like thinner pancakes, but have at it with making them just how you like. You can, of course, serve them for breakfast which is what my dad does on the back deck of his cabin in Northern Michigan (all hail to the ritual gods!).

These measurements are in mL because the family recipe we all share now comes from a handout my uncle made for his chemistry students, using buttermilk pancakes to teach a lesson about the chemical reaction that happens with the baking soda. It’s four simple ingredients

Baking Soda
Water
Flour
Buttermilk

Heat griddle to 350-400°. Put 1.5 rounded tsp of baking soda in a large mixing bowl. Add 100 mL water and stir.

Measure 500 mL buttermilk and pour into the baking soda mixture while stirring gently. At this point, my uncle would have you write what reaction is evident, but you can skip that part. Add flour slowly, with gentle mixing, until the consistency is to your liking (thick enough to hold shape on the frying pan). Don’t worry if there are lumps–just make sure the flour is all moistened.

Spoon/pour the mixture onto hot griddle to form your pancakes. Peek underneath and flip once they are golden brown (batter should be nice and bubbled on top). Remove when second side is nicely browned. Eat immediately with butter and maple syrup. Spin your own ritual.

More on ritual (and a fun full moon rituals printable for this weekend!) in this week’s newsletter. You can sign up here.

Fair Game

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We returned to our annual family crayon box adventure this past weekend–the Collier County Fair.

This is our eighth year visiting the fair and the best one yet — cooler temps, way less crowds, and Dash out of the “runner” phase where I’m constantly worried he’s going to take off. This is also the first year we didn’t bring the stroller, and we regretted it simply because we missed having a place to dump all of our stuff.

As with any continued return to the same place every year, the fair works a bit like a holiday, punctuating the passing of time more than we notice in everyday scenes. As if seeing my kids changing in front of the same cotton candy stands and 4H tent doesn’t hit home enough, the fair makes it literal with all the “You Must Be This Tall To Ride” measuring sticks. “Alright, Fair. I get it. The hourglass sand is slipping, and my kids are getting old.”

I have a foolproof remedy for the sting of “my kids are growing too fast.” I’ve tested this remedy a number of times in numerous settings to validate my theory these past two years, and although I’m still in the data collection phase, I can assure you my remedy works every time. It might take a day for it to work, but I promise you, it works and anyone can use this method.

It goes like this: Find something to be grateful for in this moment, say it out loud, acknowledge time is passing and then…Lean into it, lean into it, lean into it so hard.

At the fair, it goes something like this.

The sting: I remember when Lainey held my hand in this same spot, and her little pacifier lisp when she said “yes” to the bumble bee ride. Why does time go by so fast? 

The remedy: I look out at my kids walking next to my dad and Brett’s mom. I whisper, “I’m so grateful for vibrant, healthy grandparents who love my kids so much.” I crouch down to take a picture of the scene.

I ask Lainey and her friend if they want to ride the really high swings. I high five my girl when she says yes–for the first time–and holler all sorts of embarrassing woo-hoos while she’s soaring.

I drink cold beer and hook my arm around Brett’s, buy cotton candy, shove a wad of one dollar bills in Lainey’s hand when she asks for an elephant ear.

I breathe in the sunset, the secret magic fair light (setting sun through dirt particles can’t be beat), the wafting scent from the taco stand, the smorgasbord of colors, the carousel music.

I promise to hit the pet store for fish accessories the next day, secretly hoping they gave us the most unhealthy fish so we don’t make it that far (wish granted, rest in peace Chicken Legs and Rat).

I love this little fair and the memories it gives our family every year.

A few more moments from the evening:

And we are thankful for another family memory with Lainey’s dear friend, Maggie. She’s like part of our family. We know that Maggie’s family will most likely be moving somewhere else in the country later this year and are beginning to talk about how hard that will be (cue tears). In the meantime, we are soaking up our time with her.

Happy Monday! Leaning in so hard.

From Scallops to Hemingway: Our New Couples Friends

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Between Brett and me, there is no contest for who would win “Most Talkative.” Let’s just say that opposites attract because a man of few words married someone who suffers from that horrible condition where whenever there’s an awkward silence, sentences–and usually the most awkward random ones that don’t even structurally make sense–pour out of my mouth without any control. Sidenote: I once bumped into a guy crush in the hospital stairwell where I worked at the time and went to say “Hi Shawn, how are you?” but, swear to God, it came out, “Are Shawn, you how hi?” Needless to say, the So Many Words award would go to me, not that it’s something to be proud of.

So surprisingly it was Brett who, a month ago at the end of our date at a local Italian restaurant, insisted on waiting to leave until the couple sitting next to us had finished their conversation so he could ask the woman how she liked her scallops. Brett had given them a 5-star recommendation earlier in the evening when she noticed we had ordered them and asked if they were good.

“What did you think of the scallops?” Brett finally asked. Five minutes later, we were deep in conversation–one that lasted another half hour and ended with an exchange of phone numbers. I had assumed the couple was married but discovered they were brother and sister, snowbirds who live most of the year in New Jersey but flee the cold this time of year to the same city where they each have a home and meet up throughout the week because–as Isabel, the sister, explained–“We’re very close.”

He’s a writer, a fisherman and has a son Brett’s exact age named–you guessed it–Brett. 
She’s a spiritual guide, a belly dancing teacher (she celebrated her 85th birthday belly dancing with her granddaughters), a voracious reader and a mother who lost both her husband and a daughter the same year eight years ago.

We had dinner with them again last night, and when talking about that year, Isabel’s brother looked over at her and said, “Isabel’s my hero. The way she dealt with that year and her life since–”

Isabel smiled and very calmly answered, “Gratitude. I can’t change what happened, but I can focus on my gratitude. I’m so grateful I had them in my life. And I’m thankful for everything I have in my life now.”

We told stories all night last night. They asked how we met, where Brett likes to fish, what I think of the publishing industry today and the most insightful questions about our children, safety in schools, books, business and poetry. They told stories that made us listen to every word, and I filed inspiration into so many categories of my brain.

“We call each other every morning to read a poem,” Isabel said.

“It could be anything,” her brother explained, “Keats, Langston Hughes, Hemingway–did you know Hemingway wrote lots of poems?”

“Every morning?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” Isabel answered. “We take turns. But we always start our day with a phone call and a poem.”

Isabel called me “Sweetie” and touched my hand lovingly whenever she leaned over to ask me a question. I am bewitched by her wisdom, vibrancy and love of life.

“You know everyone always plans for the first two thirds of life, but not many people talk about what they want to be doing with their lives in the last third,” Isabel said, “And I’m not talking about financial things because you hear about that. I’m talking about how you really want to be spending your life.”

I want to spend it like Isabel. Reading poetry, teaching spiritual classes, meeting up with new friends for dinner, celebrating life with belly-dancing parties and gratitude…for all of it.

Isabel looked across the table at Brett at one point and smiled. “There’s one thing I want to ask. I know what Kelle thought of you when you first met because she told me how loving you were with your boys, and of course devilishly handsome. But tell me what you thought of her on that first encounter.”

And now comes the best part of this whole story. My man of few words pondered the question seriously as I waited for his thoughtful answer. Isabel and her brother, their eyes twinkling, waited for his thoughtful answer with me.

Brett gathered his thoughts, smiled and said….wait for it…

“I thought she was nice.”

You heard it right: She. Was. Nice. Stay tuned for our line of cross-stitched pillows, framed prints and t-shirts with those poignant words to come.

And that, my friends, is a perfect example of how opposites attract.

Happy Friday!

Also, if you’d like some newsletter love in your box every now and then, I finally started one. You’ll get a little love letter, some things I don’t share on the blog, an organized round-up of favorite posts and extra things like illustrated printables, my new favorite thing to create.

For a printable guide to The Shakedown, the 30-minute mad dash cleaning spree before company arrives, download “Company’s Coming.”
And for some spring inspiration, download the Spring Bucket List. Tape it to your refrigerator and check off favorites with me (might I suggest starting this weekend with that cocktail with the Peep garnish).