Happy Birthday, Pancake Maker!

So today is a good day.  It’s Erick’s birthday and I’m celebrating with pancakes that are burnt on the outside and runny in the middle!  There’s something beautiful in these black cakes of goo that calls for celebration.  Ok, maybe it’s not so much the pancakes that do the calling, but the pancake maker, Erick.

March 21st, 1993.  Imagine a Sunday morning in a household bustling with girls getting ready for church.  (You have to imagine it, but I was fortunate enough to have been part of it.)  As was often my habit, I sat back and watched this microcosm of motion take its natural course. 

Mentally noting the activity like a National Geographic field reporter, I observed the following:  Socks previously matched and put into a drawer, once pulled from the drawer, no longer match.  Hair evidently doubles in length on Sundays because it takes twice as long to blow dry.  Toothpaste shortages happen instantly and three minutes before it’s time to load the car.  Scriptures apparently have legs and can walk away from the place they were formerly laid.

I also observed (as a result of the aforementioned bustling) a busy mom and a teenage boy with an unusually big heart.

Looking back, I wonder if Erick had blown his hair dry that morning, because he was graced with an incredibly ingenious idea – he would lighten his mom’s load by cooking breakfast for the family.

After a good twenty minutes of clanging, pseudo-measuring, mixing and (I’m pretty sure) experimenting, the batter was ready to meet the nuclear-hot griddle.  The first ladle of batter seared and whistled as a small poof of greasy smoke clouded Erick’s face.  Working his way through the heat and smoke, Erick scraped and flipped the pancakes like he had been flippin’ pancakes all of  twenty minutes.

I knew the time would inevitably come for us to consume the cakes.  I stepped toward the chef, very literally a martyr.  Erick’s face beamed as the creature on the spatula fell to my plate with a “fwop”, batter oozing through crusty, burned cracks. 

Mmm.

I remember a lump growing in my throat as I watched the mass inch its way across the plate toward my fork.  It took the same amount of time for the butter to melt as it did for me to realize…the lump wasn’t a physiological response to the gooey black thing sliding around on the plate in front of me.  The lump was actually an assemblage of gratitude and respect.  It was a growing emotional response to Erick’s natural selflessness.

Needless to say, cooking was not so much Erick’s gift.  But in this instance of what he called “cooking”, Erick’s gift lived and shined.  His real talent was caring, providing, doing, and sacrificing.  He lived and breathed an innate kindness.  From Erick, I learned that kindness is not something you wish for; it’s something you make, something you do, something you are and something you give away.

Those black, gooey cakes were (hands down) the most delicious not-so-fantastic pancakes in the history of Sunday morning pancakes. 

So today I’ll burn me up some cakes and celebrate Erick, his sweet (yet charred) selflessness, and real kindness. 

This world is better for having welcomed Erick 34 years ago.