I make pancakes instead of money.
Sometimes I have a desire to be one of those moms that wakes up every morning and makes pancakes. Part of me cringes to admit this because I still struggle to feel valuable in my domestic role, but I do enjoy the way pancakes slow a morning down. And many mornings are not slow: rushing to school or work. Though in my world, many of them actually are slow, and I actually do have time to make pancakes if I want to.*
And this week I did.
I’ve been futzing with a sourdough starter and it was finally mature enough to use so I decided to cottagecore-it-up and make loads of sourdough pancakes. And they did make for beautifully slow starts. Hot griddle, sizzling butter, and sweet scents on cold winter mornings, which were intermittently bright-sunny-clean and dark-cloudy-gray as is the way of the Colorado front range this time of year.
This week I was the mom that wakes up every morning and makes pancakes. I was the mom that wakes up every morning and makes pancakes because I can do it all, right? As a woman in 2024 I can do it all and have it all. I made pancakes every morning in addition to working my thriving career and helping my daughter with her homework and cooking wholesome dinners and getting to the gym and keeping a tidy house…right?
FUCK no.
This week I was the mom that makes pancakes every morning precisely because I can not do it all. And I can not have it all. These pancakes are the compensation of my anti-labor. The fruits of my outright refusal to do too much. And while it is my choice to make the pancakes, I want to be clear that they don’t come without sacrifice. There are many other realities that simply can’t be, at least not right now, in order for these pancakes to exist. The career I do not have, the public roles I do not occupy, the compensation and recognition I definitely do not receive.
And I could make different pancakes. I could throw the flour, water, and eggs together while I field emails. I could hope they don’t burn while I half watch them and half listen in on a zoom call. I could flop them down in front of my daughter, quickly douse them in syrup, then hurry back to my computer screen.
I don’t have to slowly ferment them overnight in order to break down the phytic acid and unlock precious nutrients (nevermind the weeks of daily feeding and discarding it takes to foster the proper yeasts and bacteria in the first place). I don’t have to listen to the batter sizzle as it hits the griddle, or feel a warm cup of coffee in my hands and the smooth, cool wood floor under my bare feet. I don’t have to eavesdrop on my daughter sweetly humming and chatting to herself as she plays in the next room.
I don’t have to live this way. I could choose to do more, have more, be more…
But the pancakes, they sure come out good.
*Because I’m only making pancakes if I genuinely feel like it and absolutely not to fulfill some societal ideal of motherhood. I just really like to be cozy and eat pancakes.