The Labors of Love

Photo: My parents in 1963 at a seaside amusement area in England. They were married for 57 years, traveled the world, adventuring across 50 countries, and inspired three generations... and counting.

A few weeks ago, I challenged myself to cook something I had never made before. I do this from time to time as a way to expand my repertoire, sharpen my culinary skills, and do something that pushes me beyond my comfort zone. In this manner, I've learned how to can jams and pickles, bake bread, and make crème brûlée. Sometimes, it is based on plenty - like the year we had an abundance of cabbage so I learned sauerkraut and kimchi. Other times it is the obscurity - a handful of quince fruit in our garden led to making a pale ruby quince jelly.

This time, it was a simple delicacy that my mom used to make when I was a kid - Sri Lankan pani pol pancakes - a breakfast specialty or sweet tea-time snack. Pani pol literally translates to syrupy coconut, in which light and spongy crêpes are rolled with sweetened grated coconut filling.

The recipe itself wasn't difficult, but getting over the nervousness of making an actual crêpe was. Crêpes are so... French and intimidating! But they're also quite simple, with only a few ingredients. The way my mother churned them out, you'd think she was Julia Child. 

So much of what my mother did in the kitchen, she did with pure joy. She was an expert at cuisine from her native land, but she also embraced the fare in her adopted country. She made tacos, homemade pizza, stir fry and enchiladas. She'd spend hours in the kitchen for a meal we'd heartily wolf down. She would just smile and accept the compliments. It was what she loved to do. 

When my mother passed away during the COVID year, it was a strange and confusing time - no one could come, not even her beloved grandchildren. Her services were graveside on a bright April day run through with a chilling icy wind. In contrast, my father (who passed away seven years before her) had as close to a "big, fancy funeral" as you could get, with family and friends converging from all over the country, a coffin draped in both the US and Sri Lankan flags, and all the fanfare we could manage in a difficult time. He would have loved the meals we had under a canopy in our sprawling backyard, the jokes and anecdotes, the new memories we made while sharing memories of him.

My parents were like binary stars - both with a light of their own, but as in many binary star systems, one star always shines a little brighter, is more star-forward, pulls a slightly stronger gravitation. My father was that star. My mother was his complement - quiet and reserved, not one to shrink behind him, but to allow him the whole of the spotlight. It was only after he died that we came to know her in her own light. She didn't care for ice cream, she watched game shows like a religion and - even when she was cooking for one - made special meals every day of the week.

My mother wasn't showy in her emotions, either. Saying "I love you" wasn't her way, but if she DID love you, she made it plain to see, in her rapt attention, her smile and laugh, and, most importantly, she would cook for you. That was her love made manifest.

Now I get it, this many years after her passing, how she toiled without complaint, sometimes for hours, making things just so. Her affection was made manifest by the way she delighted in cooking our favorite meals for birthdays and special occasions. 

My rendition of pani pol pancakes was spot-on for taste. I felt transported back to my childhood. My technique will have to be better practiced to achieve the fluidity with which she did it, but I felt her guiding hand. I find that I, too, feel the joy of spending time on foods that inspire memories or comfort. It may not have been the conventional way of showing love, but what is love if it wasn't sacrificing her own comfort for the enjoyment of others, of knowing exactly what to make for each special person in her family, and of making memorable meals that brought people together. That is spot-on for love.

Photo: My parents Rex and Sue (Rani) a few weeks before he passed, enjoying a
fancy tea with friends.