A Personal Essay by Claire Peretta

I can recall how, growing up, the soft light of Sunday mornings would caress my face, as if reaching their sunbeam arms through window blinds to tap my shoulder and say Good morning! It’s time to get up. While I was always a bit slow to rise, the Sun knew that the second I heard the heavy shuffling of my father’s slippers on cold kitchen tiles, I would fling my small body out of bed and scramble to get downstairs. The sound was a signal; I had a very important job awaiting me.

For my family, Sundays were always pancake day. If my dad and I hadn’t been laughing about some silly joke we saw on TV the night before, or cheering whenever I successfully recited the recipe by heart or flipped a pancake perfectly (this was my very important job), anyone who walked into the kitchen would hear the powdery thud of dry ingredients, the wet crack of eggshell being broken, and the metallic scraping of swirling whisk on glass bowls. They would smell the slightly burnt chocolate chips (a must-have inclusion for my brother and I), the savory scent of melting butter, and the sweetness of the pool of maple syrup my brother chose to drown his pancakes in—despite my many complaints that nobody would want his leftovers, myself specifically, because they would be all soggy.

As I got older and began staying up later, sleeping in longer, and eventually moving out for university, Sunday morning pancakes slowly fell out of the weekly routine. Life was getting progressively busier, and I had lost sight of their importance.

However, one Sunday morning, after finally moving out of the dorms and into an apartment for my sophomore year at SU, I had felt the urge to make them again. For one, I actually had a kitchen to use and all the ingredients, but I had also had a stressful week and desired a comfort meal to ease the tension—something that I knew could always help me start my day off on the right foot. I whipped up the batter and flipped over the toasted circles, and while it wasn’t fully the same because my dad hadn’t been there, that first bite of buttered pancake transported me all the way back to those original Sunday mornings. I was again the little girl who memorized recipes, the little girl who flung herself out of bed and got to spend quality time with her dad before the rest of the family was downstairs, and the little girl who may or may not have snuck small handfuls of chocolate chips when no one was looking. I realized, after finishing my breakfast that morning, just how much peace this sweet treat brought me, and I was suddenly ready for the day and motivated for the coming week.

The older we get, the more we begin to use the phrase “Sunday reset.” By this, we refer to the process of taking Sundays to reorganize, recharge, and refocus, doing household chores, meal prepping, and creating a relaxing environment for ourselves via self-care activities. For many of us, cooking and baking are tools we use to unwind, whether it’s to get our minds off of something, have the space to think something through, or even simply because we know we’ll get a delicious reward for our work. Over time, I had forgotten that pancakes, for me, had the power to release all of the negative feelings I had been harboring, at least for a little while. When I began making them every Sunday again, I found I had something to look forward to when the week was done and a new one was just beginning. I could indulge in this childhood delicacy and know that a smile and fond memories would find themselves with me again. I could drop my shoulders, unclench my jaw, and take needed deep breaths as I savored each and every bite. With that happiness and comfort came energy, and with that new energy I felt restored and repaired. I could once again take on the world.

I am not saying you need to make pancakes, nor does it have to be something particularly meaningful, but I do think that every Sunday should start with something sweet.