And Pancakes for All

I might be a pancake snob.  Don’t look for a flapjack box mix in my pantry; I don’t care whose aunt’s name is on the label.  Mom always made real buttermilk pancakes from scratch, and I follow her tradition.  My brother feels the same way and told me about a restaurant in Nashville where he and his kids waited in line to get pancakes, and it was worth it!

When my friend Debbie and I take my daughter, Emelyn, and her friend, Jamie to visit their other friend Ashton, and Debbie’s sons at Lipscomb University, what do you think I suggest we do for breakfast on Saturday?  You guessed it.  We cue up at the end of a long line at Pancake Pantry downtown Nashville, Tennessee, hungry and dreaming about freshly whipped butter melting over hot buttermilk pancakes. We send one of our eight college kids to scout ahead and see where the line ends, because it’s around the corner out of view.

He gets back and reports that once we get to the sign (also out of sight around the corner) we have a thirty-minute wait.  I wonder if it’s silly to stand in line for breakfast, and whether these kids will be bored and think this is stupid.  If they do, they remain too good natured to complain. They pass the minutes of inching forward entertaining each other and us. Goodness, its invigorating to be around such promisingly bright, fun, college kids.  It’s surprisingly brisk, this bright fall morning, which turns our thoughts even more toward the hot breakfast waiting inside.  If we ever get in! 

A tall rangy man with a scraggly beard who apparently got dressed at an army surplus many days ago, staggers down the line behind us looking for handouts.  He gets to me and asks for money to get some food.  “I don’t carry cash, but if you’re hungry we can buy you some pancakes once we get through this line.”

He hollers at me in reply, “You think I’m gonna stand in this fool line to get pancakes?  That’s crazy!”  I shrug as he storms back across the street.  I can see the sign marking thirty-minutes more when I crane my neck around the corner.  I reckon we’ve come this far.  We might as well stay the course.

When we finally get inside, the servers push together enough seating to get us all at one long table.  I hold the menu in amazement at how many choices I’ve got to make.  I hear someone ordering chocolate chip pancakes and see a plate go by heaped with three hotcakes, smothered in peach compote and a big dollop of home churned butter melting into a delicious pool.  It smells heavenly: cinnamon, coffee, and of course steamy pancakes crisscrossing the dining room and landing in front of excited diners.

When our order arrives, our table lapses into a brief moment of silence as our forks return again and again to delight our taste buds.  Conversation resumes, and I lean toward my daughter tentatively, “Do you think our pancakes taste this good?”  She nods and I search her face for sincerity.  “I think if we make our own butter, our pancake recipe tastes as good as these.  We just need to try sprinkling on the goodies.”  

Emelyn’s eyes light up with the spark of an idea to bring us all together again for a more fulfilling pancake dream!  “Mom, we should make them our pancakes when everyone comes home from school.”

“Okay, guys, are you all going to be home at Thanksgiving?” I ask.  Syrupy grins turn my way, “Because Emie and I want you to taste-test our pancakes and let us know if they are as good as these. How about Black Friday, ten A.M. you come to our house and we find out?”

Emie’s Black Friday Pancake Breakfast is born.

Over the next twelve years, we stretch out our dining room table and serve up sixty-plus homemade buttermilk pancakes for our church youth group and college kids each day after Thanksgiving.  This year when we hadn’t talked about it yet, I was warned, “We’re going to show up at ten on Black Friday and demand pancakes, whether you invite us or not.  So, you might as well get ready!”  

Your Turn:  How do you spend the day after Thanksgiving? Are you a shopper, a rest-er, or a pancake-er?