Flour, eggs, milk, vanilla, salt. These ingredients will come together to make my family’s ultimate comfort food--the thing that connects us most to our past, present, and each other. I’m not sure I can make them anymore.
My mind flashes back to Nana sitting in the cramped kitchen on her stool. The stool had a thin, paper-white metal frame and a matching vinyl seat. It looked like it wanted to be a real barstool when it grew up. Nana’s tiny frame fit perfectly.
The kitchen smelled like five simple ingredients. My siblings and I would beg Nana to make us palačinke, and eventually, I wanted to learn how to make them, too. Repeatedly, she’d take the metal spoon out of my hand to show me the proper way to drizzle oil into the pan. She’d sit on her stool within arm’s reach of the stove, watching my best attempts to make the Serbian version of a crêpe, and often toss those attempts out of the frying pan and into the garbage. But she was gentle through the process; learning to make palačinke is all about trial and error.
I was thousands of miles away the day Nana died. My study abroad experience had just begun in the most beautiful city I’d ever seen, and I would have traded all the gelato in Florence to be back in northeast Ohio, standing by Nana’s stove while she gave me directions in broken English. I knew only one way to feel like she was still with me.
When I tried to make palačinke a few days after her death, I couldn’t. The batter was all wrong. I didn’t know if I should add more eggs or milk. The pan was ineffective. I missed her so desperately. I enlisted help from back home, and with my brother coaching over Skype, those simple ingredients became magic once again.
That was seven years ago. Sometimes I still struggle to make palačinke, in part because there is no recipe. Nana didn’t measure anything. When she did write things down, they were in a Serbian/English hybrid that also mixed metric and American measurements. And those couldn’t be trusted, either. A cup isn’t a cup. A “cup” is a small, slightly rusted blue camp mug from an Akron thrift store. Nana cooked everything by sense and intuition.
Now I’m trying to do the same. I grab the mixing bowl and throw in all the ingredients. The whisk plunges in and I release a nervous sigh. I like recipes. A recipe is a foolproof plan! Follow the directions, and everything will turn out just beautifully, right?
Until it doesn’t.
I think about an incident several months ago, when my grand recipe for my life and career started to crumble. I was driving home from a graveyard shift at 8 a.m., like I’d been doing for roughly six years. Other Denverites raced through traffic to get to work while I squinted in the morning sunlight, trying to stay alert. Suddenly, a white sedan pulled sharply in front of me from a side street. I can’t even say if the driver cut me off or not, because my reaction time was that slow. I slammed the breaks and let out a small scream, but it came out somewhere between a gasp and a hiccup. I finally arrived home, my face as white as my knuckles from gripping the steering wheel. The moment I turned the key, I collapsed into myself, sobbing.
I’d followed the recipe set out for me perfectly. Go to college, start a career, work hard, pay your dues. Everything will turn out just beautifully. Instead, I burned out.
I feel the heat coming off the stove and I know it’s time. I drop a ladle of batter into my new, nonstick pan and hear the sizzle. Now, I breathe a sigh of relief. The first palačinke is always bad-- like making pancakes. But suddenly, my kitchen smells like Nana’s.
She’d been with me all along. She was the voice inside my head for months, saying: Get out now. This isn’t meant for you anymore. It’s time to tell your own stories. And anyone with an immigrant grandmother knows, you do not disobey. So with little more than a few ideas and a new dream, I quit.
The next few palačinke flip and crisp up wonderfully, with the help of Nana’s special “palačinke knife.” It’s a long, thin kitchen knife she had for decades. When it got dull and rounded, she kept it because it was perfect for this particular task.
Then, I question the batter again. I add more milk. The next time I go to flip, the palačinke knife skewers the mushy center of the thin pancake, along with my self-doubt. I add in a dash more flour, whisk, and start again. The next one doesn’t fall apart.
A smile creeps up on me. Maybe it’s ok to not get it perfect all the time. Maybe it’s ok to adjust. To make it up as you go along. To create something based on what feels right.
I use a spatula to scrape the rest of the batter into the pan. A few minutes later, I flip the last palačinke out of the frying pan and look at the fresh stack of golden brown, plate-sized comfort. Excited and nervous, I spoon out my family’s favorite filling: cinnamon and sugar. I roll it all up and take a bite. Tears instantly fill my eyes. Best palačinke I’ve ever made.
Don’t worry, there is still a recipe! In the process of making these palačinke, I wrote down my Nana’s recipe for the first time to share with the world. Cooking by feel can help us let go of the “rules”, but preserving family traditions is also incredibly important. You can find the recipe for Millie’s palačinke here!
I love this story, especially as a fellow perfectionist. The desire to do everything the "right way" all the time crushes the spirit. It's liberating to engage in a creative pursuit that lets you just wing it from time to time. Definitely subscribing!
Part of me is legitimately curious if the "Cup" imparted any flavor on the recipe due to its age.
I loved your Nana. Thanks for sharing what she shared with you!