The Sunday Table

On supper, pancakes, and the rituals that carry us home

The older I get, the more aware I am of how differently the world feels from when I was younger. Especially, the weekends.

When I was growing up, Sundays meant church and supper. Not always church, because we often attended Saturday evening mass. But always supper (and my Grandmother, the host, called it “supper” as well).

Supper was an early meal that just felt special. The whole family piled in to the house at the same time and gathered around the table. The food was hearty and plentiful. Baked chicken or pot roast. Stews or pasta. Bowls filled with fresh vegetables, mashed potatoes and dressed salad. Dessert and coffee afterwards. The conversation was lively, and stretched on until the dishes were put away and the sun dipped low.

Everything shifted when I went off to college, then married and moved away from my hometown. Sundays began to feel less like a day for gathering and more like the day before Monday. A time to rush through errands, run to the store and prepare for the week ahead. As if the next week mattered more than the day we were living.

As a young married couple, my husband and I rarely cooked Sunday dinner. Instead, we celebrated Sunday mornings. We’d carry the thick Sunday Chicago Tribune all the way to the pancake house several long Chicago blocks away, and stay for hours. The staff never minded. If the Illinois snow was too much to bear, we’d pick up a box of Sara Lee croissants from the closer Dominick’s down the street. We spread the paper across the living room floor of our tiny 500 square foot apartment and ate our grocery store croissants with an entire pot of Folger’s coffee.

We were not very discerning back then, but we were happy.

Later we moved to the suburbs where we found jobs and had children. Sundays became church, then baseball and soccer games, chores and homework. But first thing in the morning, there were pancakes. There’s something deeply comforting about a tall stack of pancakes, the smell of bacon swirling through the house and coffee brewing.

My kids always requested chocolate chip pancakes. In fact, I don’t think they can eat pancakes without chocolate chips, even now. Plus lots of whipped cream on top. My husband and I preferred fresh fruit and maple syrup. Everyone was happy. Even our dogs, Molly and Moose, got a plate.

Now Sundays are quieter. Molly and Moose are gone, and the kids are grown. We don’t have the opportunity for big pancake breakfasts any longer.

I do, however, always make Sunday dinner, even if it’s not as grand as a Sunday supper. Since I never moved back to my hometown where most of my family live, the last nearly thirty of cooking dinner my Sunday table has consisted of two to five people. After years of accommodating everyone’s schedules, I got used to making our evening meal late—usually some time after 6 pm, no matter the day of week.

I still miss the Sunday suppers of my childhood. Quite frankly, I yearn for them. I want to return to that world, when everything was simpler, safer and happier. When there were a lot of us to gather around the table. Where bowls passed, gravy slopped, and real napkins caught the dribbles.

There was one Sunday in the recent past when each of my kids brought a friend home. We ate earlier, just like the suppers of my youth. We sat at the big table typically reserved for holidays. For that day, we were a table of eight. More voices to fill the void. More hands to pass platters and bowls. More crumbs left on the tablecloth.

It felt a little more right.

There was a time when life moved too fast for me to notice what I was missing. I was absorbed in survival. I think many of us are. But as I’ve slowed down and tried to understand who I am beneath the busyness, I’ve realized how much the family table means to me. It’s more than a mere table. It’s a kind of safety net. A refuge from the rest of the world.

A time warp, actually.

One where we can say what we want without fear of judgment amongst the people that truly know our heart. Where we can pass memories as quickly as we pass the biscuits. Where we live in the moment, as if the only thing that matters is this day, this place, these people.

One recent winter night, finding myself alone for dinner, I decided to make pancakes. The snow was gently falling outside, a perfect backdrop for the glowing fireplace. The world, for once, seemed still and unhurried. I brought my plate into the living room and ate at the coffee table. A different kind of meal. A different kind of table. But healing in a way only peace is able to accomplish.

I may never be able to eat pancakes without hearing the laughter of my children or the greedy slops of my dogs as they lick the last of the syrup from the plates. That’s ok—I’ll stay in these memories. I am grateful for them.

I may not be surrounded by a large family anymore, but that doesn’t mean I can’t tend to the rituals that still matter. I can set a table, albeit a different version of one. I can cook, even if sometimes it’s only for myself. But most of all, I can remember.

And sometimes that’s enough to feel at home.

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Eventually, as you get to know me, you’ll learn how much I value making food from scratch. As I write this, there’s homemade yogurt straining in a colander and sourdough starter waiting to be mixed for bread. Pancakes are no exception.

Pancake mix is so simple that it’s hard to remember when we decided that it was something that needed to come from a box. This is a recipe I have been using for many years. It’s dependable, unfussy, and endlessly adaptable. You could swap in buttermilk, add chocolate chips, or fold in fresh fruit. My personal favorite is blueberries!

Enjoy!

With warmth,

Michelle

Homemade Pancake Mix

Ingredients:

4 C all-purpose flour

1/3 C granulated sugar

3 T baking powder

2 t baking soda

1 t kosher salt

Mix all ingredients well, store in jar in the pantry.

Homemade Pancakes

Ingredients:

2 eggs

2 T avocado oil

1 1/2 C milk

1 1/2 - 2 C pancake mix

Instructions:

Whisk wet ingredients together. Add dry mix. Add more mix or milk to achieve desired consistency.

P.S. Let me know what you’d bring over if you came to breakfast!

I write about food, memory and slow living here at Marygold Journal. If this resonates with you, subscribe and stay awhile. Better yet, share with a friend so we can all connect.