My brother set out to make breakfast for us, his siblings and guests, this holiday.
That morning the menu was pancakes, to honor a very special flour, from the prairies of Alberta, a gift from my daughter, along with a very fresh Maple Syrup.
My brother followed the instructions to prepare the mixture to the letter, while the rest of us sat around him in entertaining conversation and in our very usual style of handling four conversations at once, all speaking at the same time, and yet understanding each other wonderfully, something that my very British husband always marveled at.
Our host put the fine flour, eggs, butter, milk and all that goodness in the blender and announced that he had to blend them on “high” for three minutes.
We didn’t even flinch and continued the conversation, only at a higher volume.
Phrases and syllables here and there splashed across me. After living for so many years in Canada, I understand my late husband better.
In the end I didn’t know what we were grinding more efficiently, the mixture that was stirring in the blender or the words.
Finally breakfast was served and the glorious pancakes were waiting for the voracious diners.
Attack! It was the unspoken order.
No one said another word.
There was a brief, but endearing silence that tasted like memories, like family.
-Pass me the Maple syrup – my brother said.
Within seconds, we were once again enveloped in our delicious bustle.