The clinking of measuring spoons always fills me with joy. Those shiny metal utensils know all of my secrets. They offer a sharp melody to accompany my pacing around the kitchen as I brainstorm our meal of choice for that snow day morning. It was a Tuesday, and I had just marched through my best friend Liam鈥檚 door a few minutes earlier, drenched, and my hair decorated with wet snowy clumps from my not so much of a walk鈥攂ut a winter trek鈥攖o his house.
鈥淧ancakes,鈥� is what I say after a few moments of silence.
鈥淣o,鈥� Liam counters, 鈥淧ancake.鈥�
Our mission that morning became cheffing-up the largest meringue pancake ever to exist. We cracked many eggs鈥攁nd jokes鈥攚hile dancing to 鈥淩eelin鈥� In The Years鈥� by Steely Dan, and whipped the egg whites until they became stiff like the snowy peaks of the Himalayas. While Liam mixed the dry ingredients, I started measuring the milk. I carefully poured the smooth, white liquid into the measuring cup, it becoming cold against my hand as it filled up and up, splashing to the brim. I meticulously poured the cup into a bigger bowl but still, cold milk ended up dripping down my forearms, reaching my hands that were accessorized with bits of sugar and sticky butter. I laugh, because this is the part of cooking I love: the messy yet coordinated mish-mash of all things sweet, spicy, and salty that I can turn into anything I please.
This five-star breakfast food has always been part of my life鈥攖he taste of fluffy, sweet maple-soaked pancakes brings me a sense of comfort and nostalgia. I can remember my dad, a chef, teaching me to chop my first bell pepper鈥攖he monster of all vegetables to chop. It was red, shiny, and full of little seeds. He only let me use a small paring knife, despite begging to use a 鈥渂ig knife鈥�.
Cooking has grown into being the love language for the relationships I hold closest to my heart, and as my skills and knowledge in the kitchen have grown, I have too. Whether my friends and I are holding an impromptu 鈥淐hopped鈥� competition or I鈥檓 learning how to grill my first burger with my dad, cooking has become the invisible string that pulls me along through my ever-so-busy life: a mash-up of sports, friends, family, and my studies. I find infinite comfort in folding, scraping, chopping, and all of the familiar motions of cooking that are constant no matter where you go: like how a cup is a cup and a teaspoon is a teaspoon.
The smell of caramelizing batter wafting up to my nose brings me back to reality鈥攊t's time to flip the pancake. I grab the warm handle of the skillet, holding it steady, while Liam slides a spatula under the monster of a breakfast we created. We count down, and in a whirlwind of motions, the golden-brown side of the pancake is face up. I look at Liam鈥攁nd our eyes simultaneously light up with relief and pride. When the pancake is done, we spread an unholy amount of butter over it, drizzle Maine maple syrup on top, and the fluffy goodness is gone within minutes.
When I think back to this day, I reflect on how cooking has taught me how to thoughtfully escape momentarily from my busy life, unleash newfound creativity, and discover an activity where I am able to create anything I put my mind to. I realized that cooking for and with the people I love is something I will always find comfort in. Cooking that giant pancake opened a window to seeing how a jumble of ingredients can mix together to create something magnificent (or just a happy mess) and to see the pieces of my life mix together to shape who I am. And all I really needed were some measuring spoons.
Elle's essay is a deceptively simple tale about making a single pancake鈥攂ut it's really a well-developed story that tells me so much about her. Elle has been passionate about baking since first holding a paring knife to a bell pepper, and is willing to trek through the snow to visit her friend and construct the ultimate five-star breakfast food. She blends beautiful prose with a variety of storytelling devices, and even sneaks in a Steely Dan song, to the delight of certain counselors.