Pancakes

My Dad is making pancakes this morning.

I love my family.

I don’t readily align myself with people who flounder in the choppy waters of gender-stereotyping . . . usually because they’re wrong. What does this have to do with pancakes and family? Let me explain.

Right now I’m sitting in the basement of my parents house typing this blog. My parent’s home is made out of paper, so I can easily hear my father in the kitchen making pancakes. But he’s not alone. My mother and my sisters are also in there. But they’re not talking about superficial dates or freckle-deep anecdotes. They’re talking pure philosophy. They’re debating theology. They’re hashing out ethical dilemmas over a smoking pan of Dad’s Special Pancakes.

People say that women communicate “face to face” with questions and conversation. They also say that men communicate “side by side,” sharing common tasks and projects in an attempt to bond. Though stereotypes are generally true, I seem to know all the exceptions, and I think you know a bunch of them too. My dad doesn’t have to be flipping pancakes to debate my sisters about movies themes. He and I don’t have to be fishing to delve into taboo topics like relationships.

All of my male friends can sit around for hours just discussing. Learning. Growing.

But right now it’s my family. In fact, they’re so involved in their topic they can’t hear the phone ringing. One second please.

**************

Well, it wasn’t that important. My cousin called to tell us he’s coming over.

But I promise you this, when he comes over he’ll slip seamlessly into the ongoing debate and flaunt his opinions and theories without missing a beat.

That’s my family: Stereotype-breaking, constantly-communicating, pancake-flipping, wonderful people!

I love them.

Christmas Eve!

I couldn’t possibly scrawl my feelings for Christmas in a single weblog. Even though there are no pages, just endless streams of digital parchment, I don’t think my mind could interpret into words the billions of emotions and abstract webs of fascination and delight I experience at this time of year.

So here’s one little anecdote to leave you with this beautiful Christmas Eve.

I’m with family right now. My sister and I, though professional and reserved in our respective corners, are like match to fuel when we’re together. The fireworks of raucous laughter and incessant playing are contagious, nigh intoxicating. Now I just need to figure out who the match is.

The extended branches of my family get together on this most glorious Eve to celebrate the birth of our Savior. The sweet fellowship, food, and festivities will extend deep into the latest ebony, littered with rainbow lights and a deep, pale moon.

By the time the masses (approximately 30 some people) fade into the cracks and crevices from which the appeared, the remnant that’s left will try to find a relatively comfortable place to crash while we await Christ’s Day. All the beds will be packed and sleeping forms will invade the most unlikely places, including the bath tub. This reminds me of one particular prank I played on a sleeping cousin, cuddled dryly in the basin of my parent’s tub. Sigh.

My place of honor, reserved for the eldest boy, was wherever I chose. My choice? Push out the chairs and throw down a sleeping blanket . . . I’m sleeping under the dining room table. Why there? Don’t be silly, everyone knows the answer to that question.

So there we are. A house full of family, every nook and cranny nooked and crannied, me in my kerchief under the table . . . and Christmas waiting on the door step.

My narrative could continue long into the New Year, but I only wanted to share with you some of the sweet eccentricities of my family. I know most of you share in my unique love of quirky family traditions, and I’d love to hear about them. Tell me what crazy things your family does for the holidays.

Until then, this is Kevin Olsen signing off from under the dining room table. Merry Christmas and God bless.