“Sophia,” I wake to the whisper of my mom above me. “Honey, it’s time to wake up.” She pats my hip, but I still don’t budge. “You have church in half an hour and we were late last week.” I groan a little, but the small sign of life is enough to get my mom off up my bed. “We have pancakes waiting when you’re ready.”
Now I’m up too.
Downstairs, my dad stands in front of the stove with a ladle of his infamous homemade banana fritter batter. We call them pancakes because to us they’re close enough to that American favorite. But these, these are a delicacy in our house. Dad got the recipe from his uncle when he was young and lived in London, after his father died. His uncle, Nolan, was given the recipe from his own father, and now it gets passed on like a family broach.
“I still think you should sell Brooks’ Banana Fritters,” I say, and it goes without saying that there’s a bit of seriousness underlying the joking tone- we’ve all said it at one point when he’s made the delicious things.
“Maybe someday mon petit chou,” he assures.
“Your shoes didn’t get ruined yesterday did they?” My mom asks, and I shake my head as I stack my plate with banana fritters. Bon appétit.