I'm Honest

Author: Talia

  • My Grandpa’s Swedish Pancakes

    My Grandpa’s Swedish Pancakes

    Talia Lin

    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. 

  • Patterns

    Patterns

    Talia Lin

    When I think of patterns, I think of clothing. I think of plaid, or polka-dots; zig-zags or stripes. Textiles and fabrics. But what I’ve recently discovered is that patterns go far beyond the second dimension. 

    What I mean to say is that we all have patterns.

    And a lot of our patterns, in my experience, are actually really important parts of who we are.

    For instance: how you have to buy a pack of whoppers every time you enter the movie theater. 

    Or how you never leave the house without kissing your dog on the head. 

    Or how you listen to “Champagne Problems” by Taylor Swift every time it rains. 

    Or how you always bake a cherry pie on the first day of summer. 

    Or how you wear the same pair of pearl earrings every Tuesday. 

    Or how you call your mom every other day, or how she answers with the same excitement in her voice each time. 

    Or how you plant flowers every spring, order caramel cappuccinos every fall, and buy a new scarf every winter.

    Or how you always look at the maple tree when you pass it on the road.

    I encourage you to discover some of your patterns. Not only is it a fun little task that helps you learn something about yourself… it also just might help you appreciate you a little more.  

  • I’m Honest

    I’m Honest: A Blog

    Talia Lin

    Honesty…Is the best policy?

    I think it’s quite typical for children to have a hallmark indication of dishonesty. My dad always kept a jar of peanut M&Ms on the counter. Eyeing it was suspicious; taking from it was a grave infraction, and one I never seemed to get away with. One day, when I was eight years old, I took from the jar. To my eyes, it looked untouched, but to my mom’s’, half of the jar was missing.

    Twenty minutes later, she called me and my brother to the kitchen. She pursed her lips, and she looked from him to me and back again.

    “Did you take Dad’s M&Ms?”, she asked, eyebrows raised.

    I kept my composure, as did my brother.

    “No, mom. I’m honest,” I told her.

    She smiled, then dismissed my brother.

    “Mom, I’m honest,” I repeated, and some tears escaped my eyes.

    I went to timeout, and the occasion left my memory. Years later, I asked her how she always knew I was lying. She told me it was because I said I was honest. Every time.

    This was my hallmark symbol. “I’m honest” was my lie. Truth does not need be stated that it is; truth is the default. It should not be buttressed with evidence or stern faced unless it Is questioned.

    Many online claim to have all the answers. Their lifestyle is gospel, their choices the only paved path, and their followers the only enlightened disciples.

    This blog will be my gospel, my truth, and my untested ideas to a happy life. Because it’s my first time living, too. So there’s no proof, no evidence that anything I’m going to tell you is true in the slightest.

    So yes, I suppose I am lying to you.

    Or maybe I’m just saying I’m honest.