While most kids look forward to weekends, my younger brother and I looked forward to Saturdays. 

And only Saturdays.

This was because, after a long exploration of the Jewish faith which lasted until I was seven-years-old, my Mexican mother decided that it was time (as her Jewish boss advised) to force the children to follow the religious path of the mother.  That meant, through no fault of the Jewish faith whatsoever, that we'd convert to Catholicism, immediately, and in spite of my father's opposition. 

And that meant that I was just about the oldest child in my religious community to become baptized in 1986. 

At the time, I often found myself wondering if my mom's boss was correct in his advice.  He deemed my mother Jewish, after all, simply for her ownership of an Old Testament name, Ruth.  And, boy, if the world could only have seen his face light up at the sound of the names of "Ruth's youngest children, Deborah and Eli", it would have recognized the existence of a second Sun. 

Still, I don't think that he quite understood that we two would be subordinated to the teachings of the Catholic faith for years upon years to come (monthly confession, for example, was a grand ol' time).  I don't think that he quite grasped the idea of spending Sunday morning after Sunday morning in class.  And I don't think that he quite got the starving reality of it all, one in which we'd have to wait until after the 9:30 AM class and after the 11:00 AM Spanish mass to have breakfast.

Breakfast truly made a Sunday more tolerable.  In fact, for many years, the Sunday school experience grew more and more tolerable considering my mom's pancake Brunch, afterward.  When she was well, which wasn't often, mom would accompany us to church.  When she didn't, however, my brother and I would try to get out of going, our tries sounding similar to this (though they usually happened in Spanish):

"Ma, if you're not going, why do we have to go?" one of us would whine from our supposed gift of Sunday rest in bed. 

"Yeah.  It's boring!" the other would add.

"And for three hours, all we get is a wafer," a final attempt was made in a plead for mercy.

"Well, I guess I don't have to make pancakes or French Toast for you.  That's fine.  You can have cereal.  Toast. But-"


               A Pancake Memory


And that's all it took to send us soaring into the bathroom to get ready for Sunday hell. 

(Ah-h, tough love.)

Mom wasn't the greatest baker in the world.  In fact, most of her breads and cakes resulted dense and undercooked in the center.  But when it came to cooking, particularly breakfast foods and dinner, she rocked.  Mom could probably outdo most famous (and oddly annoying) chefs if it weren't for her slow-paced, detailed way of doing things. 

Yet, that was just it.  

Her slow method was her unique signature and the reason that our neighbors happened to show up at our place night after night for dinner.  The aromas which flooded the sixth floor were too good to pass up.  If dinner was ready at midnight, then midnight was when everyone would eat.  And we rarely had leftovers!

So, in class, our pencils tapped along the sides of our marble notebooks.

At church, our faces contorted to release numerous yawns.

At home, though, our stomachs growled with each sniff of crispy-edged, crepe-like pancakes sprinkled with the zest of an orange and sizzling bacon; a prize which defeated all prizes at the end of our great sacrifice like a shining trophy at the finish-line of a sweaty marathon. 

Mom never made pancakes from scratch, either.  Instead, she opted for cups of Aunt Jemima mix which she nurtured until they became a delicious work of art.  Abandoning instructions, altogether, she'd substitute water with milk or add a touch of honey or mashed bananas to a very thin batter.  Then she allowed cool shapes to brown nicely on an old pan unlike IHOP commercials which advertised the power of the golden, perfectly-circular pancake.  


   Front*                Back*


Mom was rebellious in her own, subtle way, right down to when it came to making the simplest of dishes.  And yet,  the simplicity in such a tasty, weekly tradition alongside her is enough to warm my heart for the rest of my days... without her.


      Very Pregnant Mom, 1979



*My version of her pancakes.  I'll try to be less of a perfectionist, next time, because one of the crazier-shaped ones of last week resembled an elephant.