Sourdough Pancakes

6/26/2021 2:30:56 PM
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I'm not writing about visual art this time. Instead I'm writing about culinary art and art of family. My cousin posted a picture on Instagram of sourdough pancakes she made from my grandparents recipe. When I saw it my first thought was "I loved those pancakes!" I didn't think about them again until last night when I couldn't sleep. I usually do my best, or worst thinking during the middle of the night depending on what's on my mind at the time. I started thinking about how good those pancakes were and how I don't think I've ever tasted better ones. They were really good but I think the memory of those pancakes are flavored with memories of my grandparents. That's what makes them so exceptional. I remember the large jar of dough sitting in the back of their fridge and grandpa adding new ingredients to it after using some. My grandpa belonged to the Lions club and during the Art City Days Celebration in Springville, Utah, he would make pancakes at the Lion's booth at the park. They tasted best there. I don't remember my grandma cooking much. I asked grandpa once when I was young why grandma didn't cook much. He told me it was because she wasn't a good cook. He looked serious when he said it. After that I wasn't so sure I wanted to eat grandma's food. Thinking about it now I don't know if he was joking or he really meant it.

As I laid in the dark, my mind kept wandering over memories of my grandparents. Most are about grandpa. Some are very vivid. Others are ghost like. Hard to hold onto. One of the most vivid is about the times grandpa irrigated his yard. He had a large yard and as he pulled the doorway in the canal that allowed the water to flood his lawn, my brother and sisters, my cousins and I would run through the water laughing and trying to scare each other by saying we saw snakes. I still see the arcs of water spraying out from behind our feet and how the drops of water sparkled like magic diamonds.

Another vivd memory is my grandpa working in his lapidary shop behind his house. At that time Bolo Ties were in style and he would make them and other jewelry. I was always amazed when he would cut open a stone and I could see the ugly outside shell and the beautiful colors and patterns that were hiding inside it.

I remember grandpa rescuing me after I tried to climb over the white picket fence in his backyard. My pant cuff caught on the pointed top of a picket and I hung upside down calling for help for what seemed an eternity before he found me.

I have many more memories. In fact when I looked at my clock while I lay in my bed, I realized that what had started as a thought of sourdough pancakes had turned into an hours worth of enjoyment as I remembered my grandparents. These memories are what I meant when I wrote the phrase the art of family. I hope you and your family are creating your own art at this time. And I hope that some time when you are laying awake in the middle of the night you get an hours worth of enjoyment out of those memories.