Everybody Has a Story: Grandpa cooked up real love and bad pancakes

When I was a little kid in the late 1950s, my maternal grandparents lived only a few miles away. It was always a treat to spend the night with “Pop and Grandma.” Pop, who had worked in coal mines and driven a logging truck, was a crusty old coot with a soft heart. Grandma, who also worked outside the home for many years, was practical, sensible and easygoing. They were perfect grandparents.

One of my overnight stays, when I was only 6 or 7 years old, will never be forgotten. Pop and I were early risers, so on this particular morning, Pop decided he would make breakfast for us and let Grandma sleep in. It was a cold, wintery day. Pretty soon the little kitchen was warm and filled with the smells of hot chocolate and cooking pancakes. Before too long, Pop said, “Sit down, the pancakes are ready.”

I hopped into my chair, and he put a plate of steaming pancakes, swimming in syrup, in front of me.

Yes!

I was very hungry and quickly shoved a big bite into my mouth.

Ugggh! Aackkk! The pancakes tasted horrible!

I didn’t say anything, because I was afraid Pop would get mad at me for being ungrateful. After all, he had taken the time to make my breakfast, something he rarely did. I took a sip of hot chocolate and braved another bite.

Yuck! The second bite was no better than the first. Timidly, I said, “Pop, these pancakes don’t taste so good.”

He was busy at the stove with the second batch and said gruffly, “No, there’s nothing wrong with the pancakes. Go on. Just eat.”

I took another bite or two, my taste buds screaming in protest the entire time. I had to say something.

“Pop, they just don’t taste good.”

He plunked the spatula down on the counter and walked over to the table, clearly annoyed with me. Looking at my plate he said in a bit of a raised voice, “There is nothing wrong with those pancakes. You said you was hungry, now eat!”

I hated when Pop got mad at me, so I picked up my fork and put another bite into my mouth.

It tasted worse than ever! Caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and being a little kid, I started to cry.

“What’s the matter with you? Haven’t you ever eaten pancakes before?”

He was now clearly frustrated with his fussy grandson, and his cross voice proved it.

Grandma must have woke to the commotion, because she came walking out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.

“What’s going in here? Why is he crying?” she asked.

“I got up, made the boy breakfast, and now he says the pancakes I cooked don’t taste any good. I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” Pop said, complaining.

Grandma, in her usual calm demeanor, walked over to the table and looked at the pancakes on my plate. She took a tiny sniff. Without a word, she got a fork from the silverware drawer and took a bite of my pancakes.

“John, what did you put on his pancakes?” she asked.

“Syrup, just like always,” he replied.

“What syrup?” she asked gently.

“From that plastic bottle right there,” he said, pointing to the kitchen counter.

Grandma walked over, picked up the plastic bottle, and to my surprise, she chuckled.

“Oh, John, you put vinegar on the boy’s pancakes!”

“What!?”

Pop looked like he could have died. Grandma held out the bottle for him to see.

“You grabbed the vinegar bottle, not the syrup bottle!” she said, explaining and trying not to laugh.

Pop’s whole body sagged. He looked at me and slowly said, “I am so sorry, son.” When Pop called you “son,” you knew he meant it.

Grandma quickly deposited the vinegar-soaked pancakes in the garbage, and in nothing flat, I had a new plate of Pop’s steaming pancakes swimming in real syrup this time.

We enjoyed a truly tasty breakfast, and Grandma couldn’t stop teasing Pop over his honest mistake. You see, back then, vinegar bottles and syrup bottles looked quite a bit alike.

Pop never volunteered to make breakfast for me again.

Nearly 40 years later, my grandfather, now 89 years old, lay on his deathbed with his family gathered around. We all took turns whispering our goodbyes to him. Although he was too weak to speak or even move, I quietly reminded Pop of our vinegar story. I told him that the moment when he said he was sorry was the moment I knew he loved me. Despite being nearly spent, he was able to give me the tiniest smile.

I was present when Pop died just a few hours later. I like to think he died laughing.

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