There’s an old saying that a day is what you make it and the Tuesday prior to Ash Wednesday has proven to mean many things to many different people.

Traditionally recognized as a day of feasting prior to the religious practice of fasting to begin Lent (the 40-day Christian season ahead of Easter), it’s known around the world as “Shrove Tuesday,” “Fat Tuesday” and the end of Carnival – a celebratory festival otherwise known as Mardi Gras.

But it’s also known as “Pancake Day” and for many of the same reasons. A big stack of pancakes is symbolic of abundance.

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I’m sure there are plenty of people who don’t like pancakes, but I’m not sure I’d enjoy spending much time with them.

Maybe it’s the early childhood memories of flapjacks with my family – of my dad pulling out the aluminum Sunbeam electric frying pan on Sunday mornings and cooking up a feast for me, my three brothers and sister along with our mother. We’d sit around the small kitchen table together and laugh, arguing over who had more and who probably had too much.

Those pancakes didn’t just nourish or satisfy our appetites – they provided an excuse to linger a little longer, share ideas and talk about the silly and often inconsequential things that represent typical happy family life.

During summer vacations to Maine, I remember walking the woods around the lake with my siblings in search of wild blueberry bushes. We’d pick enough for breakfast and bring them back to our dad in the cabin. As a kid, there’s something extra special about playing a small part in the preparation of the meal and knowing what you’re eating is wholesome and fresh.

With a family of seven, we didn’t go out to eat very often, but when we did, it was either to the Red Coach Grill for a special celebration or to Howard Johnson’s or Denny’s during summer road trips. Pancakes were always on the menu and always on our plates. I can still taste the warm syrup, flowingly not just over the hot cakes but also the sausage and eggs.

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In recent years, I’ve become a fan of Cracker Barrel’s pancakes. But then again, maybe it’s the homey atmosphere in which they’re served. Everything tastes better on a cold day when you’re eating it by a roaring fire.

When my father moved in with us following the death of his wife and my mother, he brought with him boxes of kitchen ware – bowls and utensils of all kinds – inadvertently reminding us that most manufacturers don’t make things like they used to. We now have 50-year-old spatulas and 60-year-old knives that put modern engineering to shame.

But maybe the most cherished of all those kitchen items that remains today is that electric frying pan – dented in spots but still working like a champ. Whenever I pull it out, I think of my dad in his apron on Sunday mornings, whipping up another batch of Aunt Jemima pancakes, stacking them up high in a makeshift boiler to keep them warm on the stove.

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It’s my turn now to make the pancakes for our boys, and I happily do it and sometimes wonder what they’ll remember about these mornings when I’m gone. I hope what lasts aren’t the memories of the food but rather the love behind it.

Pancakes for dinner, anyone?

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