I used to think it was all about the pancakes.
Or hotcakes, as we always called them.
Growing up, hotcakes had a kind of daily magic in our family. Every morning at my grandparents’ house there was batter mixed, a griddle warmed, and the smell of breakfast filling the kitchen before most people were even fully awake.
All it took was a quick phone call to get a place at the table.
No invitation required.
No fuss.
Just “come eat.”
The pancakes themselves were wonderful.
Light.
Fluffy.
Perfectly golden.
My Grandpa Leo made them almost every day with my Mamu’s help, using a recipe that had likely started on paper decades earlier. By the time I came along, though, the whole thing had become instinct. No measuring cups—just feel, memory, and practice.
A little more flour.
A splash of milk.
The batter mixed by touch rather than by rule.
At the time I believed that was what made them special.
The pancakes.
But as I’ve grown older, I’ve realized it was never really about the pancakes at all.
It was about him.
It was the time and attention he put into each batch of batter. It was the steady habit of showing up every morning. It was the comfort of knowing there would always be room at the table and a warm plate waiting.
And the beauty of it was you never knew who would be there.
Sometimes the morning was quiet.
Other times the kitchen overflowed with grandchildren and cousins and the layered hum of conversation.
No matter how many people crowded the table, Grandpa had a way of making each person feel seen and important.
Especially the grandchildren.
If you were lucky enough to sit beside him, he would often reach over, take your hand, and give it a gentle squeeze.
Such a small gesture.
But somehow it said everything.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“You matter to me.”
“I love you.”
Grandpa Leo had that quiet gift.
He had well over fifty grandchildren, yet each of us left believing we were his favorite.
What a rare and generous gift that was.
Now that I am a grandmother myself, I find I think about those mornings often.
I remember how he made people feel—the steady welcome, the patience, the way he showed up.
Those breakfasts are some of my most treasured memories, not for perfect pancakes or a fancy table, but because we felt wanted.
We were fed in every way that mattered.
This, to me, is the real magic of gathering around food.
Of course the food matters—the smell, the taste, the ritual—but what stays with people is how they felt while sitting at the table.
Safe.
Welcomed.
Loved.
That is why I still think about those hotcakes all these years later—not because they filled our stomachs, but because my grandfather filled the room with love every single morning.
Sweet Wishes,
June