Of beer pancakes, Dad and the psychology of breakfast

They say that smell is more closely linked to memory than any other sense. It stands to reason that taste, being closely related to smell, would also have the same effect. Simply smelling or tasting something can trigger trigger vivid memories and emotions.

My question is this: Can it be reversed? Can a memory of something be so strong that you can actually smell and taste it?

Wednesday night, I was settling in to watch a hockey game and I had the overwhelming smell and taste of pancakes. Not just any pancakes. My Dad's beer pancakes.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Who would waste perfectly good beer making pancakes? Then, I'd introduce you to the resourceful man my Dad was. And tell you about his habit of creating happy accidents and adhering to family tradition.

Like all of Dad's stories, the story about how beer pancakes came into existence changed depending on whether we were standing around a campfire, breakfast table or poker table. This is the version I heard most often:

We were at deer camp one year and whoever was supposed to bring milk didn't. (Probably him.) Everyone was supposed to bring a 5-gallon jug of water, but not everyone did. Pretty sure I brought one. You know I don't like going without water. (True story. He'd forget toilet paper, but never water.) So the day it was my turn to make breakfast, we didn't have any milk and we were short on water. But we had plenty of beer, so I figured I'd give it a shot. The rest is history. Everyone liked them so much, I started making them all the time.

Dad started making them at home when I was two or three years old. He probably didn't make them as often as I think he did, but if you ask me now, I'd probably tell you he made them most of the time he made breakfast on the weekend.

I guess he probably made them to remind himself of a simpler time in his life, and to bring back memories of being with his buddies and their new families in an Eastern Oregon deer camp for a week. They'd hunt all day, drink beer and play poker or sitting on strap lawn chairs or logs around a campfire all night to see who could spin the best yarn about catching the biggest trout, the most smelt or the monster buck that got away.

My memories of beer pancakes center around deer camp and the smell of the scrub cedar and sumac that surrounded the clearing along Middle Caney Creek in Chautauqua County in Southern Kansas. My dad cooked on a cast-iron griddle on an ancient Coleman stove he probably built from spare parts he acquired in the early 60s when he worked for that company.

Now, it's been at least 25 years since I've had Dad's beer pancakes. But on Wednesday night, the sense of smell and taste hit me so hard, I knew I had to make them this weekend. They weren't as "beer-y" - or as good - as Dad's, but still had that familiar tangy-sweetness I remember.

Maybe beer pancakes simply taste better after a morning spent sitting in a tree. Or maybe they're better when someone else makes them while telling you about how he created the recipe and you laugh, not because it's the fifth time you've heard this version of the story, but because you can see his enjoyment in making them while telling the story.

Or maybe it was just the company.

Open Letter to My Dad

Dear Dad,
It's been a long time. I'm not saying that to be an asshole or anything, but it's been 11 years since I got that phone call at 6:30 in the morning on November 12, 2001.

We knew it was November 11 when you left, because there's no way you made it to midnight that day. You worked around the farm most of the day, and I know for you, that day was probably about as perfect as you could get. In a place that you loved, doing the things that you loved, working around the farm, cooking up some venison, having a few

and some of your favorite deer camp "horse dervies" which no one in their right mind would eat

By the way, that pronunciation died with you. But I'm bringing it back. Along with the camel joke.

For the first time since you left, November 11 was Veteran's Day for me. I didn't think much about it being your last day. And I know you wouldn't want it any other way. "Ten years is a long time to grieve," you'd say.

Like almost every other thing you said, you'd probably be right.

But the thing is, there's not a day goes by that I don't think about you. Everyone misses you and still talks about you like you're still here, even eleven years later. That's strong, Dad.

Dad with his little buddy, Levi, sporting the do-rags.

I'll let you know that I finally visited you. Twice now. The first time, I lasted about 15 seconds. But it broke the ice. This past Memorial Day, I went with Toby, his buddy, Mike and Ashley and we drank a beer with you. For you, I guess is the more appropriate term.

I still haven't been down to the farm. I may never go, even though I know it is a special place you chose because you wanted to retire there someday. Someday just came way too fast.

I know what you'd say about that, too, Dad: "I wanted this to be a place where you boys could go and take your families. You should go."

But I really only know it as the place where you died and would only know it without you. Toby and Duke know the place with you there. They got to see how you looked at it and talked about it.

I know that's where your spirit is. Danny has said he's seen you there. I hope he's right. But he knows the place with you there, too. I think that's why I've been reluctant to go: I'm afraid I won't see you there. It would just be the place where your journey ended and I don't want that. Hopefully someday, I'll be able to make that trip and walk your land with you.

I miss the way you'd laugh. The way you'd grin, with the glint in your eyes because you knew something funny was coming. There was that snort thing you'd do. Then three or four chortles that could be mistaken for a coughing fit. Now I'm thinking that watching you laugh is the reason I try to make people laugh.


I think what I miss most about you is how damn philosophical you were. I'm not really sure that others know that about you. But there was just so much I learned about how to be a man shooting pool with you. You taught me more about life playing pool and drinking a few beers than all of my professors put together. You were my greatest teacher. I want you to know that.

I guess I've come to the reason for this: I'm working through some things that I need to change about myself. I don't have your patience, and I sorely wish I knew your secret. I don't have your wisdom, even though I'm as old now as you were when I graduated high school. I'm still not half the man you were, but I'm trying, Dad. I'm trying.

So for me, November 11 was Veteran's Day. I'm fairly certain you'd be comfortable with that. But your birthday's coming up next weekend. That's always been harder for me. I don't think November 19 will just be Saturday.

Love you,
Number one son (I even remember the Charlie Chan reference)
Joel

I'm Gonna Live Forever

I've been thinking a lot about my Dad today. Not for any particular reason, but probably because I miss talking to him. I could sure use some of his counsel right about now. He had a way of putting things into perspective.

My Dad was a simple man. He always wished for the same thing on his birthday. "Health, wealth, good friends, and time to enjoy them." He liked hanging with his family. He liked being outside. He liked dogs and kids. He liked old trucks and the 57 Chevy. He told the same jokes and the same stories over and over again, although the stories sometimes involved different characters and had different endings. (My Dad was full of shit, but in a good way.)

He liked fire. He would make little fires on our back patio in a cast iron dutch oven. My Mom always was a little bit afraid he'd burn down the house. After he died, we built a fire in his smoker that stayed burning for five days. We'd gather around, drink beer and tell stories about him. I think that Dad would think that it was a right proper send off.

My brothers and I have very different personalities. I think if you ask anyone who has known us through the years and knew my Dad, they'd tell us all, "You're a lot like your father."

I can't think of a greater compliment.

We played "Live Forever" at his funeral right after I delivered the eulogy. Some say it's about religion, and that may be true; I can't say what was going through Mr. Shaver's head when he wrote it. But to me, it's about passing the right information to the next generation, and in that, leaving behind a legacy.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oyEJfoLWq9k&feature=related