I love the peace and quiet of mornings. That is why I like to wake up earlier than everyone else in the house, though I am not necessarily too much of a morning person. There is just something about these brief, calm moments in the morning — before you start rushing and worrying about your day, before everyone around you starts fussing around, traffic annoys the hell out of you and you are already pissed before even making it to work… Just for a few brief moments, it is me, my bowl of cereal, my steaming coffee and news (or given that the worldwide news right now can horrify anyone with a speck of humanity in them, I’ve progressively switched to more cheerful, less engaging TV shows).
And then, there are the weekends. Juggling two jobs, one of which in a city 100km away from where I live, preparing for a marathon (and it is my first one, so it takes so much out of me), trying to keep my hobbies alive, I do not get many proper weekends anymore. But there is one thing I always find the time to do — indulge myself with pancakes or French toast on a Sunday morning. It takes me back to when I was doing my undergrad studies, and every Sunday morning after going out the night before (I used to be into clubbing back in those days), I would wake up to the smell of freshly made French toast, pancakes, or something else prepared by my mother. And though I do not, in general, like her cooking, after dancing until the early hours of the night, I would wake up with quite the appetite and those pancakes or French toast of hers would taste like tiny pieces of heaven.
So maybe having pancakes on a Sunday morning reminds me of those times, brings back the feeling, need and belonging of home, the habit that became a tradition for you and your family, part of the many small things that build up who you are — not you as a person but your family as the people who often annoy you but mostly ooze pure love and care for you. Or maybe these small things are simply a reminder that at least for a day I should take it easy and indulge myself; because, after all, it is about those small things we do for ourselves and for others around us that can make a moment special, or a morning uplifting. Of course, when you have to make the damn pancakes yourself instead someone else making them for you, it is much less special, I admit. Nonetheless, it feels wrong to eat cereal on Sundays. Sundays are for pancakes and French toast, for building up your energy, rebooting and relaxation; for care, love, family and tradition — even if you can’t have them all at the same time.