The First Pancake

The Boston Herald

I call him my first pancake. It's a term of endearment and part of our family vocabulary. All families have their own words and phrases.

When you make pancakes, the first is the one you burn or undercook or make too fat or too thin. First pancakes are hard to get right because you haven't got the process down yet. Imagine taking someone who has never cooked and putting her in a kitchen and telling her to make a pancake. Chances are  she's going to run into a little trouble. Making pancakes takes practice.

Same thing with raising children. Only motherhood isn't a small kitchen with a little pre-made batter in the fridge. It's the Betty Crocker bake-off.  You have a child and suddenly you're in the spotlight and under the gun. On your  mark, get set, go. And there you are measuring this and mixing that, hoping the batter is sweet enough, but not too sweet, and thick enough, but not too thick. Trying not to burn the edges while trying not to leave the middle raw.

My first pancake will be 34 tomorrow and I didn't know nothin' 'bout birthin' babies when I had him. I never had younger brothers and sisters to practice on. I babysat, but that doesn't count. Babysitting is like popping a frozen pancake into the toaster - the pancake is already made. Having your own first baby is like creating a pancake from scratch - and this doesn't mean Bisquick. It means flour and sugar and shortening and baking powder and salt and eggs. Plus, you have to measure and the ingredients have to be fresh. And then you have to get the temperature just right.

It isn't easy. You make mistakes. A little too much salt; baking powder that's past its expiration date; the heat a notch too high; the milk a day too old - you can mess up a pancake in a dozen ways.

I always tell my son that I messed up on him. I dressed him in Garanimals. I put him in an orange turtleneck and brown plaid pants on his first day of kindergarten. I was his Cub Scout leader and I actually encouraged him and his troop to sing "I Won't Grow Up" at a big Cub Scout banquet. I nagged at him to wear a jacket, to put on a hat, to button up. "What do you mean, you're not cold? Of course, you're cold." He never was. To this day he doesn't get cold. But he was my first pancake so I hovered.

There's a song from “Mame," which I think about now: "Did he need a stronger hand? Did he need a lighter touch? Was I soft or was I tough? Did I give enough? Did I give too much?”

You never really know. A first pancake is an experiment. My son had my total, undivided attention for two years until his sister came along. And then he still had my attention because that's what you do with a first pancake. You focus on it. You watch it fill the pan and you pay attention as it bubbles and you carefully  lift up its edges because you don't want it to stick and then you flip it and inspect it. And all the time you are hoping you get it right.

After the first, you don't fuss as much. You just keep on pouring the batter and putting the pancakes on the plate and if one's smaller or thicker or  crispier than another, who cares? Because in the end, all pancakes are good.

That's the thing about pancakes. Even messed up, they're good. Thin or thick, round or misshapen, undercooked or overcooked, first, last or somewhere in the middle, you coat them with butter and cover them with maple syrup and they are - every one of them - de- licious.

Just like children. You nag them. You embarrass them. You're too soft sometimes and too hard other times. But as long as you coat them with kindness and cover them with love, they turn out just fine.