The Blueberry Stain on the Ceiling
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1969–2025

"The kitchen is just, it's very quiet when I make them. That's the thing I keep noticing, how quiet it is."

Okay, so I have to tell you about the pancakes because I mentioned them last time and then didn't. I do that. Harold used to say, I tell stories like I'm taking a detour through six different towns to get to the grocery store. So, Harold made blueberry pancakes every Sunday morning, every single Sunday morning for — well, from before we were married, really, because he made them for me that first time I came to his mother's house for dinner, which was actually a lunch. Grace always called lunch dinner and dinner supper. It was a whole — anyway, that would have been early 69. So from 69 until, well, three years ago, that's over 50 years of Sunday pancakes.

The recipe was Grace's, his mother. She was this tiny, tiny woman from New Hampshire, barely five feet. And she had this kitchen in her house in Nashua that was smaller than my bathroom. And somehow out of that kitchen came these pancakes that were just, I don't have the word. They weren't fancy. Blueberries, buttermilk, a little bit of lemon zest, which I didn't know about until years later when I watched her actually make them. She never wrote the recipe down. Harold never wrote it down either. He said he just knew. He'd just pour and he'd know when to stop.

The ritual was, okay, Sunday morning. I'd wake up because of the smell. Not the pancakes yet, the butter in the pan. He used an obscene amount of butter, which my doctor would not have approved of. And then the blueberries. When they hit the hot batter, they kind of pop, and there's this sweet, it just fills the whole downstairs. The kids would come down in their pajamas. Sarah always first, David five minutes later, because David was never on time for anything in his life. Still isn't.

And Harold would flip them. He had this move. He wouldn't use a spatula. He'd flip them in the pan like on TV, you know? And he flipped too hard, every time. One time, and the kids will not let this go, they bring it up every Thanksgiving. One time a pancake hit the ceiling, stuck there. Little blueberry stain on the ceiling. We painted over it twice and you could still see it. We sold the house in, wait, no, we didn't sell that house. We're in the same house. The stain is still there. I look at it sometimes. And he hummed while he cooked. I don't know if he knew he did it. It wasn't a song exactly, just this mmm, mmm, mmm, low and steady while he moved around the kitchen. I asked him once what he was humming, and he looked at me like I was crazy. He said, I'm not humming. He absolutely was.

So that was Sunday, every Sunday for 50 years. After he — I tried to make them. After. Of course I did. I'd watched him do it a thousand times. How hard could it be? And they were fine. They were pancakes. They tasted like pancakes. The kids said they were great. Sarah said, Mom, these are great. But I could tell. Something was off. The blueberries didn't pop the same way. The batter was, I don't know, too thick or too thin. I could never get it right. I tried maybe 30 times that first year. Different amounts of buttermilk, more lemon zest, less lemon zest. I called Grace's neighbor, Mrs. DiMaggio. Grace had been gone since 94. I don't even know why I thought she'd know. I was just, I was grasping, I suppose. And she said, no, honey, Grace just made them. I don't know what's different. I really don't. I've done everything the same. I use the same bowl, the same pan. The kitchen is just, it's very quiet when I make them. That's the thing I keep noticing, how quiet it is.

David came for a visit last April. He was supposed to come in March, but Lily had something with her school, a recital or a, no, it was a science fair, I think. She built a volcano. Or was that Jack? One of the grandchildren built a volcano. Anyway, he came in April and he made pancakes, and they were different again. Not Harold's, not mine. David's. He put on music on his phone. That little speaker thing Emma got him. And the kids liked them. Lily said, these are the best pancakes. And David looked at me and I looked at him and we didn't say anything.

So there's no recipe. That's what I'm telling you. People ask me for the recipe and I say, I don't have one. And they think I'm being, I don't know, precious about it. I'm not. There just isn't one. I tried. Anyway, David said he'll make them next time he visits. He better.

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People: Harold, Grace, Sarah, David, Mrs. DiMaggio, Lily, Jack, Emma