Father's Day

If I were at my parent’s house this morning, my father would be making pancakes from a sourdough starter he has nurtured for years. Last night, he would have asked, “Who wants sourdough tomorrow?” and would have already known the answer. Before turning in for the night, he would have mixed a batch of batter in an old crockery bowl and placed it in the oven to protect it from drafts. Perhaps he would have reminded my mother not to turn the oven on without first removing the bowl—a regrettable, one-time mistake that killed neither their marriage nor the hardy strain of lactobacillus bacteria culture that has lent a unique tang to generations of waffle and pancakes.

If I were at my parent’s house this morning, I’d be drinking a Mimosa while my mother filled small stoneware bowls and pitchers with jams and syrups. Perhaps my father would be enlisting the help of a grandchild to complete the final preparations of the batter. The youngest of those grandchildren just graduated from high school, so nobody would have to stand on a stool to help this time. My father would be carefully setting aside a share of the batter as a legacy for the future. He would ask, “Waffles or pancakes?”

If I were at my parent’s house this morning, pancakes (or waffles) would be served at the kitchen table as my father gave each batch its final flip onto a serving plate and started another. After a few rounds, someone would tell him, “Sit down and have some yourself,” volunteering to take over. He would say, “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. You stay there and have some more.”

If I were at my parent’s house this morning, I’d be saying “Happy Father’s Day, Dad,” while deciding whether this next stack will be graced with jam or syrup. I'd be accepting a coffee warmup and thinking about Sunday breakfasts prepared in a ritual of love and generosity.