This Sunday morning dawns like most days with the coffee percolating and the newspaper being organized into layers of importance, sports page always on top.  Sunday is made special  because of the memorable smell of the griddle heating on the stove, with pancakes turning golden brown and the crackle of sausages plumping.  Sunday has always been a special day for me, resounding with symbolism of the American dream, family, home, and hearth.  The aroma of brewing coffee and pancakes brings me instantly back to the Sundays of my childhood.

Awakening early and slumbering toward the kitchen, I would be greeted in the hallway by those familiar smells that brought with them a sense of oughtness to my world.  The still sleepy Sunday mornings when I tried to pretend that our family was like all others, whole and happy, would soon be shattered into reality.  But for those few, special hours on Sunday morning, my existence was warm and special, regardless of the tension and drama of the preceding night and before the afternoon and evening would descend into the pit of wrath that was my alcoholic Mother’s hell.

Sunday mornings began with my Father sitting at his spot at the kitchen table, shrouded in his tattered, comfy L.L. Bean sweatshirt, a cup of Maxwell House and a Camel cigarette his faithful companions.  Mom was always up and making a fresh stack of her famous light and fluffy Aunt Jamima pancakes as I strode into the kitchen.  Still to this day I don’t know how that woman could put us through the nightly torment, pass out drunk and be up at first light on Sunday morning, apron on, doing her best June Cleaver impression.  Sunday’s were great because Mom wouldn’t start drinking until later in the day, perhaps out of respect for the religious nature of the day, or perhaps out of guilt for last night’s horror.  Whatever her motivation for getting up and cooking breakfast, and more importantly, not sucking on her fifth of King William’s Scotch until later in the day, was unimportant to me.  I just relished the brief Sunday morning respite, whatever her motivation.   As soon as my bum would hit the kitchen chair, a stack of Mom’s finest pancakes would hit my plate.  Heapings of soft butter and maple syrup would ooze over the piping hot pile of golden brown goodness, her pancakes so light and fluffy as my fork plunged through the pile.

The smell of that old griddle on the stove, the image of my Dad with his coffee, and Mom dutifully and proudly serving up her luscious pancakes, are as real to me this morning, forty five years later as on those wonderful, weekend mornings.  I honor their memories, good memories, of the way things ought to be on Sunday morning.