My dad was a blue-collar mechanic who worked long and hard hours for a building demolition company in Chicago. Since he usually worked six days a week, Sunday was our one, quality Day with Dad. Sunday/Dad’s Day was enhanced for me when he made us pancakes.By way of contrast, my mom was a beautician—as opposite as you could get. While she was making people pretty, Dad had all he could do to scrub the grease off himself from his literally dirty work.
Both were very nurturing, but Dad gave most of his TLC in a traditionally male way—acting as household handyman, fixing our cars, doing lawn work, and speaking words of encouragement. After all, this was the 1950s where women were women and men were men.
Yet when Dad broke ranks with that rigid role model and made us pancakes, it really stood out for me. There was something much bigger going on than the fact that they tasted great! He was a one-trick cook, but those flapjacks were downright magical.
Looking back as a seasoned adult, I finally understand. It was the mere act of getting out of his comfort zone, giving my mom a break, and being flexible in showing his love that make the pancakes so fantastic. This is the same guy who would joke, dripping irony (and maybe a little grease), “I’ll do your hair,” when our any member of our otherwise all-female household was having a bad hair-day. All I could envision was my hair set on bolts and screws, the tools of his trade.
Love does whatever is called for, gives in whatever way is needed at the moment—and at Sunday breakfast, pancakes and fatherly love merged into one symbol of flexible and unconditional love. Whether it was watching him flip them (he was good!) or tasting the yummy results, pancakes and maple syrup will always be my sweet Dad to me in an unforgettable communion of continuity.
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Photo: Dad in 1980
Thanks to Betty Lynch of My Country Kitchen for prompting this memory by asking for “dads in the kitchen” stories.
