My Grandpa’s Swedish Pancakes

My Grandpa’s Swedish Pancakes

My grandpa passed away when I was relatively young. I was about nine years old. Initially after he died, I grieved his firm hugs, his spearmint scent, and the way he picked me up to kiss me on the cheek. I sobbed for weeks, knowing that his death meant no more hugs. No more spearmint scent. No more kisses on the cheek. I missed him, and I grieved him.

I didn’t eat Swedish pancakes for years, even though my mom knew Papa’s recipe like the back of her hand.

But as the world went on without him and I began to have more years beneath me, I began grieving differently. 

You see, I know that my grandfather and I would have been quite close if only I had the chance to get to know him as I got older. My mom tells me that he kept everything I ever drew, and he wrote down everything I ever said that made him laugh. He kept every little note I used to write him, each just as illegible as the last.

He never knew this, but I kept all of the cards he ever gave me, too. I still have every one. 

The grief I feel now for my grandfather isn’t the feeling of longing to have something back. Of course I still miss my grandpa’s hugs. But what I now miss the most is the conversations we never got to have, the songs I never got to share with him, and the shows we never got to watch together. It’s not the despair of missing something that no longer exists. It’s the ache for something that never had the chance to.

The recipe is actually quite simple. We don’t even use measuring cups. Just a handful of flour, a splash of milk, a couple of eggs, and some sugar in a blender.

You can try to make them, and you might find yourself some tasty pancakes.

Though I’ll warn you, no one can make them like Papa did.