I loved my Cousin Tootsie.
That is a love you could spell not only with a capitol L but with all capitols.
I did not get to see her a lot. Usually only once a year.
She lived in my Grandmother's house in Virginia. I was living up North in
Pennsylvania. But for vacation every year, I would get to go to the
"country" as the Virginia homestead then was called.
It was a little house. Couple rooms up stairs, a couple down. Nothing fancy.
It did not have indoor plumbing when I first started visiting. Heat in the
winter was with kerosene heaters. The stove was something I had never seen before.
A convertible. It worked with gas or wood.
And running helter skelter in the backyard were chickens. A rooster would wake you
up in the morning. Your nose would start sniffing as first light poured across your
face. Fertile soil, on the first sniff; hot coffee on the second and if
you were lucky, real lucky, Cousin Tootsie's pancakes on your third sniff.
If you smelled Cousin Tootsie's pancakes you knew it was going to be a special day.
She did not just cook them everyday, nor did she just cook them for everybody.
But I think my Cousin Tootsie loved me as much as I loved her.
In my little boy eyes there could not have been a more perfect person.
But now colored by time, and clearer vision, I know my cousin Tootsie struggled.
She was gaunt and wiry. Had real short hair that never wanted to co-operate.
She used to put that heavy iron comb on the wood stove burner. When it got
hot enough, she would rub a greasy compound into her hair and then take that hot comb to
it.
"You're smoking Cousin Tootsie," I would gleefully exclaim from my
observation post.
She just would chuckle and continue working on her hair. But a smile replaced her
weariness as she thought of my observation.
Her husband said he was going out for Christmas presents. Many Christmases came and
went and his shadow never cross the threshold again.
So with the help of my grandmother, Cousin Tootsie went about the task of raising her two
children in the family house.
Suitors came and went. One in particular was a favorite of mine. Mr. Pigeon.
I now wonder if that was a name or a nickname. But Mr. Pigeon was a horse
man. A trainer. When he was in town, Cousin Tootsie glowed. But like many
people on the horse circuit, he was out of town, on the road, as often as he was in town.
The only thing that bothered me was when Mr. Pigeon was around, Cousin Tootsie would
sometimes drink a bit. She never got mean or nasty, but often times I watched her
fall asleep in a chair, a burning cigarette hanging from her parched lips.
And I would quietly creep up on her. Remove it gently from her mouth, so it would
not fall and burn her.
I loved my Cousin Tootsie.
It was the second day of my Virginia visit. The rooster got me again. And as I
arose, I smelled the most marvelous aroma in the world coming from the kitchen.
Cousin Tootsie was making pancakes.
This was not a short process. She did not just take a cup of mix a little water and
call it a pancake.
No, when Cousin Tootsie made her pancakes there was as much love as there was flour in
them.
She would take a little pan and melt some butter in it. Cousin Tootsie's pancakes
had to have a little fresh butter at their heart. Then there was that extra pinch or
two of baking powder. I saw her going out to the hen house and getting a couple of
fresh eggs.
You could see what she was doing but not how she was doing it. Nobody could
duplicate Cousin Tootsie's pancakes. She lived with my Grandmother and my
grandmother did not even know Tootsie's list of ingredients or her process.
Those pancakes were so light. They almost floated off of your plate. And there
they sat. Right under my nose. Their fragrant steam wafting in one nostril and
out the other.
You knew you were something special when Cousin Tootsie made pancakes for you.
Summer after summer, I would leave my Northern home, for my summer week-long sojourn in
the country. And I knew, before the visit was a done deal, Cousin Tootsie would wake
me up, at least one morning, with the smell of her pancakes.
One winter, while the thought of summer and pancakes still was fresh on my mind, we
got a call from Virginia. They had found Cousin Tootsie dead.
She almost had made it home. But something had happened. Maybe it was her
heart. Perhaps she had a little too much to drink Or maybe, she just gave up.
But there, just short of that cozy little house I loved to visit, she had
curled up and died in the freezing cold.
That was more image than my mind wanted to comprehend. Her small, angular body
curled up in a fetal position. And cold embracing it, and taking her home to her
Father in Heaven where never again would anybody disappoint her. Where life would be
her friend, instead of her daily challenge.
The next summer, things were not quite the same for my Virginia visit. The soil did
not quite smell as fresh, the rooster did not even seem to crow as loud. A
vital part of the visit was missing. Cousin Tootsie was not in place. Her
pancakes would never again crown the burners of that timeless wood stove.
That was nearly 30 years ago now. But Cousin Tootsie's face is as fresh in my mind today
as it was the last time I watched, as a little boy, her put her heart and soul into a
batch of pancakes.
I got a secret!
I know Cousin Tootsie's recipe.
Every year I watched closely. She figured I was just a little boy so she did not
turn her back on me like she did the adults who came to discover her secret. So
every year, I came one step closer to discovering the secret of the perfect pancake.
It was not too long ago, I was feeling in some need of cooked love.
I crept into the kitchen. Slowly I assembled a counter full of
ingredients. Took a pinch of one, a measure of another and a half cup
of a third. Slowly I swirled it all together. Hmmm looked just about
right.
"Don't have that big wood stove," I thought. But then I warmed up the
heavy cast iron grill I got especially with thoughts of that Virginia wood-burning stove.
Let a drop of water hit the grill. It sizzled and danced.
Then the batter descended. Bubbles quickly hit its surface. A flip revealed
one golden brown side with a second on the way.
Ah the aroma. They felt so light. But aside from Cousin Tootsie, there was
something missing.
I tip-toed up the stairs. I did not disturb my wife's slumber. She deserved a
little extra sleep on this weekend. Plus I had a special rite of passage to perform.
I did rouse my daughter from her rest.
I lead her down the stairs by her hand. I could see her nose was working over-time.
Then her eyes widened as she saw the stack of steaming pancakes in front of her.
Cousin Tootsie did not have a lot to leave me. But through her pancakes, she had
given me a legacy of love. And today? It was time to pass it on to another
generation. My daughter does not know the secret recipe yet, but after a
few more years of pretending not to watch, she too may learn how to put so
much love in pancake batter that is hard to keep the pancakes from floating off your
plate.
I still love my Cousin Tootsie.
As much as Cousin Tootsie loved me, God loves me even more.
Love always has been God's main ingredient. He loves us so much that He gave His
only Son to free us from the grip of sin.
And all God wants us to do is to love Him and His son right back. Love Him with all
your mind, heart and soul and then, take that love and spread it like warm butter on a
steaming hotcake. Love thy neighbor as yourself.
That is God's recipe for our living. A love of God mixed with love of neighbor.
It is not a secret recipe but often times it seems we have a hard time gathering
all the right ingredients.
Today, smell the coffee, imagine the pancakes, but most importantly feel and spread the
love. It is what made Cousin Tootsie's pancakes float and it is through God's love that we
have hope.
