I used to think it was about the pancakes.

Or hotcakes, as we always called them.

Growing up, hotcakes held a certain kind of magic in our family. Every single morning at my grandparents’ house, there was batter being mixed, a griddle heating up, and the smell of breakfast filling the kitchen before most people were even fully awake.

And all it took was a simple phone call to get a place at the table.

No invitation needed.
No fuss.
Just “come eat.”

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The pancakes themselves were incredible.

Light.
Fluffy.
Perfectly golden.

My Grandpa Leo made them almost every day {with the help of my Mamu}, and somewhere along the way — probably 50 years earlier — they had started as a written recipe. But by the time I came around, there were no measuring cups involved anymore.

Everything was done by feel.

A little more flour.
A splash of milk.
The batter mixed by instinct and memory rather than instructions.

At the time, I thought that was what made them special.

The pancakes.

But the older I get, the more I realize it was never really about them at all.

It was about him.

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It was about the time and care he put into every single batch of batter.
The consistency of showing up every morning.
The comfort of knowing there would always be room at the table.

And the beautiful thing was that you never really knew who would be there.

Sometimes it was quiet.
Sometimes the kitchen was overflowing with grandchildren and family and conversation layered on top of each other.

But no matter how many people crowded around that table, my grandpa somehow made every single person feel important.

Especially the grandchildren.

If you were lucky enough to sit next to him, there was almost always a moment where he would quietly reach over, grab your hand, and give it a squeeze.

Such a small gesture.

But somehow it said everything.

“I’m glad you’re here.”
“You matter to me.”
“I love you.”

My Grandpa Leo was amazing that way.

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He had well over 50 grandchildren, and somehow every single one of us walked away believing we were his favorite.

What a gift that is.

Now that I am a grandmother myself, I think about that often.

I think about how he made people feel.

And honestly, I think that is why those breakfasts remain some of my most treasured memories.

Not because the pancakes were perfect.
Not because the table was fancy.

But because we felt wanted there.

Fed in every possible way.

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I think that is the true magic of gathering around food.

The food itself matters, of course.

But what people remember most is how they felt sitting at the table.

Safe.
Welcomed.
Loved.

And maybe that is why I still think about those hotcakes all these years later.

Not because they filled our stomachs…

but because my grandpa filled the room with love every single morning.

Sweet Wishes,
June