SC-S29/W3- Nostalgia Of The Liitle Me : Childhood Food Memories
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Greetings, Steemians!
I'm back again to continue reminiscing about those beautiful childhood moments, moments that are in the hearts of each of us. Here's my contribution to this series: Nostalgia for My Little Self: Culinary Memories of Childhood
I'm going to tell you the truth: I'm almost fifty, and I've eaten at fancy places, the kind with long tablecloths and fancy names. But if you ask me what my happiness tastes like, I'm not going to say expensive wine or a gourmet dish. My happiness tastes like chocolate chip pancakes.
But listen, not just any pancakes. My mom's pancakes.
She used to say something that stuck with me: Here come the ones that bring smiles! That's what she called her pancakes. And she never failed. I could have come home from school with a scraped knee or feeling down because I'd had a fight with a friend, but as soon as I heard the "swish" of the batter hitting the hot pan, the world would be right.
She said that her way of giving love was to feed her family. For the magical "Pancakes that Draw Smiles" she used wheat flour, sugar, milk, egg, vanilla essence and a pinch of salt because, according to her, it enhanced the sweetness, and of course, her secret ingredient with which she cooked those pancakes.
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Making them was simple; basically, it's just making a pancake, nothing complicated. But my mom made it magical, singing with joy and dancing in the kitchen.
It's simply a matter of mixing all the ingredients well to form a smooth, thick batter without lumps. Then, cook it over low heat and add the star ingredient: chocolate chips, which you'll find throughout the pancake.
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It was a sight to behold. The aroma began to fill the kitchen; that scent of vanilla and melting butter that envelops you before you even take the first bite. I stood there, watching the little bubbles form in the batter, waiting for the exact moment when she, with a skill only mothers possess, would flip them over.
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Upon seeing them, a smile would immediately spread across my face. The surprise, that encounter with the chocolate chip melting in my mouth... that was pure joy, like a celebration.
The secret ingredient: My mom used to say it was two things: love and joy, and as a kid, I'd laugh, but now, with the gray hairs that have appeared for some time, I understand she was right. It wasn't the flour; it was the time she took to see us happy, a time that, of course, lives on in our memories.
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Sometimes, on Sundays, I try to make some myself. I make the batter, the best chocolate, but no way... they taste good, but they're just not the same. I miss her apron, the background noise of the radio, seeing her dance around the kitchen, and that feeling that, as long as she was in the kitchen, nothing bad could happen to me.
Those pancakes were her way of telling us that everything was going to be alright. And even though the kitchen is quieter now and I'm a serious man, as soon as I close my eyes and remember that taste, I'm eight years old again. I become that little boy again who didn't need anything more in life than a glass of cold milk and a plate full of chocolate smiles.
Now I paint that smile on my pancakes; it's a way of feeling my mom closer.
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Well friends, that's all for now. I hope you all enjoyed it. And thank you in advance for any comments and support you may leave.
If you would like to know more about me, or verify my identity, here's how:
Greetings,
Thank you so much for participating in the contest.
You beautifully shared your childhood food memory of your mother’s chocolate chip pancakes for this contest. You clearly explained why this food is so special to you, showing your mother’s love through both your emotions and the recipe you shared.
You clearly mentioned who prepared the food, and when and where you used to eat it. The way you described making the pancakes yourself and feeling close to your mother again was very touching and meaningful.
Thank you @sohanurrahman
For the verification and for taking the time to read my entry. It was very special to remember that part of my mom.