Love and Lola

"She'd make these vanilla hotcakes from scratch, my Lola."

It's the perfect line to get started with. I vaguely remember extract and flour and baking powder (or was it soda?) here and there, but not nearly enough to try and recreate, so I go with my proclaimed Plan B, my actually-Plan-A because I also don't know what I'm doing, and grab the hotcake mix from the cupboards before preparing what I need. I think to myself that the instructions on the box are probably more or less how she did it and skim through it. I open it from the top and take out the plastic bag of the mix to cut it and pour it into a big bowl I did not know we had, followed by almost two cups of milk and a bit of butter.

"'The more eggs, the merrier,' she'd say."

My lips twitch remembering the innuendo that followed. And as much as I'm tempted to break a dozen eggs just to test if it really would be as merry as she said it would be, there so happens to be a whopping two in the fridge. I take them out and break them into the bowl, then proceed to fish out the fragments of shells that fell in for about five minutes because there were more than I thought.

"The way she whisked it so expertly while she chatted us all throughout always had us staring. The batter is always just right when she puts it down to prepare the stove."

We had no whisk, but we had forks, so I grab one and whisk the content of the bowl with obvious inexperience but a determined spirit I felt would help. I forget all about the concept of overmixing until I notice I've done so. A 'huh' escapes me as I realize and wish there was an undo button for this. Alas, there was not, so I go about preparing our stove and a sticky "non-stick" pan which I lightly brush with oil. I grab a ladle from the drawers and scoop enough batter to fill a little more than half of it before pouring it into the pan. The shape ended up being a little deformed, but it's negligible.

"We loved it when she flipped them in the air. It was the family magic trick."

Luckily, no one was watching me, so I unabashedly struggle to mediocrely flip the cooking hotcakes with a spatula. For all of the following hotcakes, I have a hard time with the most ambition I've ever had in my life.

"She poured syrup over so generously, our eyes always widened every time she did, and if you tell her that it's too sweet, maybe you're on a diet or you're diabetic, she'll deny it and add some more, my god."

I am nothing if not artistic, so I take the maple syrup and (hopefully not too messily) drizzle it over a stack of hotcakes. I almost cringe at the amount, then I think to myself that if what he said was true, It's probably not enough, so I add more and hope it'll still look as pretty as it surprisingly did, thinking of how I just love his Lola's spirit. 

"There'd be a perfect square of butter right at the center, and little slices of fruits would meticulously decorate the plates."

I carefully place an as-perfect-as-it-gets slice of butter atop the stack, and think maybe if I put as much thought into its placement as I did, it would make up for the fact that there was not a single fruit in the house.

"Finally, she'd make us her hot chocolate to go with them, topped off with marshmallows."

I make the hot chocolate buzzing with energy from having accomplished what I had. It was not rocket science nor a rigorous process, but, like the fruits, there was not a single mallow in this residence.

I take the plates and place them on the center table in the living room for a while, and do the same with the mugs of hot chocolate. I step back to admire my work. Though not much, luckily, it looks and probably is edible, and he's not so picky about food and aesthetic.

"I would do anything to taste her hotcakes again."

He was beautiful when he told me all of this as we lounged on the couch one winter night, a movie we weren't watching on in the background, curled up in each other's warmth. The yellow glow of the large lamp by the television set the romance of a fireplace, highlighting his side profile to make him look like a Renaissance painting in an ugly cream Christmas sweater. He is just as beautiful as he unlocks the front door and steps in in all his snowed and bundled glory, unruly hair and broad shoulders adorned with snow. He takes in I who was but a deer in the headlights in a gray and not-at-all-festive but thick and comfy sweater and the mess on the kitchen island. He looks on like I'm the most beautiful thing in the world and not him, as I'd beg to differ, and I ponder on how I didn't think far enough to know what to do when he comes home earlier than I thought; at least he arrived just as I'd finished up. "What's this?" He asks.

"You said you'd do anything to taste your Lola's hotcakes again, right?" His eyebrows come up to his hairline. "I'm not your grandmother, but I figured it was the thought that counts." For someone who dived in headfirst into this at-first seemingly brilliant idea, I start to doubt myself as the words come out my mouth. Was it too much for me to try something no one could ever replicate, something invaluable by someone irreplaceable? He stops the sudden barrage of thoughts that started to flit through my head, having practically glided across the room towards me the moment realization set in, with a searing kiss, bringing me close by his strong hands on either side of my face, and I inadvertently step forward, hands coming up to lay upon his chest. His heart beats fast under my palm, and I deepen the kiss in the thought of how much I love this man. He pulls me impossibly closer by the waist and my hands move to entwine at his nape. As we break apart with deeper breaths, I say, "You haven't even seen it." He responds with another long kiss. "Come on, Lex, what if it's actually a flop?" He lets a breathy laugh unto my lips and, surprise, kisses me again. Clearly, he has no regards for oxygen as we break apart and I continue, "You just looked like you missed her so much-" before he cuts me off with, yes, a kiss. I let a laugh escape me after, out of breath and words. "I did," he says as he rests his forehead against mine. "Thank you."

"Taste it first." A kiss. "Lex!"

"Okay, okay," He appeases through his laughing. We eat and drink on the couch, careful not to make a mess as there was enough to account for until New Year in the kitchen, and count it as dinner because we're healthy like that. We bicker as he tries and succeeds in helping me clean up saying "I did enough" while I futilely counter with let-me-do-more's. We turn in for the night, and as I lay by him on my side, taking in everything I always do in all our proximities, the lashes that grace the brown of his irises, the slope of his nose, the details of his facial hair, the cupid's bow of his lips, "I love him" repeats like a song I can't get out of my head, and I both become and unbecome the poet I am when it comes to him. Could I love anyone more than this? He sees something in the look in my face, turns to lay on his side to face me from when he was on his back, and mirrors my feelings with pride, assuring me he's not the only one unraveled. His gaze traces my face and his hand takes mine as he brings it to his lips. I take myself aback as my eyes start to burn in all my emotions. All he does is deepen the love in his eyes. Nothing more could be done to make me happy than that moment. 

"My Lola would've loved you," he whispers like it's a secret, and all I do is press my quivering lips unto his knuckle, much like he did mine.