Food is a love language.
Some people like holding hands, others like gifts; but many people will fall head over heels for a steak so rare the insides bleed onto the plate, married with a side of steamed asparagus and a pillow of mashed potatoes. Oh, and the glass of wine ... can't forget the wine.
Lola and Poppy are fluent in the language of food (honestly, what grandparents are not?). When my sisters and I were young, my parents left for work early in the mornings and didn't come home until dinnertime. Lola was known for her Filipino pancit dinners, but the most famous item on the breakfast menu was Poppy's pancakes. Every time I eat them, I am transported to their kitchen.
Sitting in a hard wooden chair, I watch Poppy cook with Lola acting as his patient sous-chef. I hear the flump of the pancake mix settling into the bowl. The smack of an egg against the counter. The yolk floats on the powder like a pool toy. A cascade of milk and oil take over, swallowing the contents whole. Poppy's whisk moves like a tornado, forcing the ingredients to become one, much like my parents would force my sisters and I to hug whenever we fought.
Poppy dips a spoon into the bowl, carrying just the right amount of batter to the pan. Quiet crackling sounds float through the air and pop in my ear. I don't know how, but he always knows exactly when to flip them. He always knows exactly how to make the rounded edges crisp, while keeping the center soft.
Lola places a plate of five pancakes on the table for me, along with the syrup. My nail slides under the red cap and I snap it open. Maple molasses attacks my plate like a slow-motion tsunami, coating the pancakes in its path. I use the side of my fork to slice a piece off. In my mouth it dissolves, and my taste buds sing.
Food is a love language. I know this because I don't even like pancakes. Only Poppy's.
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