This is my last column preceding the third or fourth iteration of the Most Important Election Of My Lifetime. There is theoretical opportunity to stump for my chosen candidates and issues, but any even casual reader of this space over the last dozen years can glean my political proclivities quite easily. Further, persuasive though I can be, I have no interest in trying to change this readership’s mind, to the extent that it could even be done and to the extent that you haven’t already voted (and you should have!). My attraction is to compromise, to the middle, to sowing the seeds of conciliation so that they may blossom in at least Violet’s lifetime. Which is why I am proselytizing for the unassailable champion of the people – pancakes.
The delicious griddle cakes that charm my dreams are aggressively nonpartisan. Or, at least the factions that form around pancakes do so in ways that are cuter and easier to digest. You may be doctrinal about blueberries being folded into the batter, but it’s hard to have a deep hatred for someone who prefers compote. Recently, I have been tending towards a thinner preparation which may not resonate with afficionados of Japanese-style fluffy creations, but there is a mutual admiration and no necessary exclusivity – I can crush a Dutch baby as readily as a crêpe.
Crêpes were one of Grandma’s epicurean love letters, missives dispatched with a cavalcade of kisses and the gentle caress of the French accent that remained six decades after her emigration. Pops took up her mantle, now cranking out mountains of heavenly pancakes so light that they would float off the plate were it not for the pat of butter that I use as a counterweight. To provide such joy for his granddaughter is obviously moving to him and it is with effort that I stem the flow of appreciative tears for the generational linkage.
As with most acts of service, there is immense personal satisfaction intertwined with the altruism of creating a heaving mountain of pancakes for a hungry crew. The morning after a sleepover, as Violet and her ladies wipe the sleep from their eyes after staying up too late gossiping, it is restorative to pump them full of Nutella-slathered goodness. When my wellness gang convenes in our ethereal outposts, my place is in front of the cast iron, expressing my adoration for them in the form of flour, sugar, berries, bananas, and bacon. Bananas also feature prominently in a new pancake quest, a caramelization of the heart and mind that sends shockwaves through me.
Vermont being the locus of many of my formative experiences, maple syrup is an inextricable part of my pancake life. The hot, sticky sweetness oozes on the plate as it seeps from my pores, tying all of my memories together, giving a needed shot of comfort in an increasingly disjointed world. Rubbing a sausage link through a puddle, pouring a small stream into my coffee ties the meal together thematically. No matter the form that my pancakes choose to take on any given day, the syrup is a reassuring constant, the linchpin of pancake democracy.
While a particularly impressive tower of pancakes may be Instagram worthy, the point is not perfection, but a gustatory outpouring of care, love, and attention. A misshapen pancake still warms the soul, a little crispiness on the edge gives texture, there is beauty in imperfection, a wabi-sabi that the infinitely sagacious Japanese have known for millennia. It is admirable to make your batter from scratch, but there is no shame in using a mix – it is the act of creation, the act of giving, the act of caring for your fellow humans that trumps every other policy consideration.
This election season, rather than be irked by the campaign sign posted by your neighbor, bring that household a heaping, steaming basket of pancakes. It’s the first step to the reconnection that we so desperately need. Even the most ardent political foes can come to terms over pancakes, those emblems of our shared American pursuit of life-giving calories, the liberty to choose one’s style of pancake and toppings, the indescribable happiness at digging into a triple stack. Come and get some pancakes, there’s plenty for us all.