Sara's Piece

Sara Paquette

Spring 2012

The recipe card is worn; its edges tattered and stained; my mother’s handwriting smudged and faded.  The paper is yellowish.  The illustration of a tree in the upper right hand corner is torn in half from when I was 23, and it got caught under the chair.  I still take the card out every time I make crepes, even though I know the recipe by heart.  There are no measurements, only feelings and rough amounts…one egg for every person eating minus one, one tablespoon of flour for every crepe plus four, enough milk to smooth it out enough to fall off the spoon.  I don’t have the directions written on the card, though; I can still hear my mother’s voice instructing me from years ago.

“Let the grease get hot enough in the pan until it starts to steam, but don’t let it get too hot to burn,” she said.  This is one of the toughest parts of cooking crepes.  Too hot and the burned grease will taint the flavor of the crepe, not hot enough and the grease won’t cook at a high enough temperature.  We didn’t have a fancy crepe-maker bought from William Sonoma.  We had what every woman in our family had used for generations: a hot griddle, a spatula, and a stove.

“The first crepe is always the test one,” she explained.  “Don’t worry if it doesn’t come out the right way. The first one never does.  It’s the second one that is the keeper.”  I smile at this memory now as an adult.  She’s right.  The first attempt at anything can fail, but all I have to do is try again and things will turn out all right.

“Now, pour the batter in the hot grease and spread it as thin as you can without creating holes.”  This technique takes a paradox of quick patience.  It has to be done correctly or the crepe will be too thick; if it is too thick, it will be no better than a common pancake.

She continued, “When the edges around the crepe start to bubble and then begin to turn up, it is ready to flip.”  Crepes are made one at a time, filling up a plate left in a heated oven until there were enough for everyone to eat.  While she talked me through this stage, I can hear her own mother’s voice telling her to do the same.  This is a recipe that has been in our family for a long, long time.  My Big Memere taught my Memere who taught my mother who then taught me. I hope to one day teach Sophie and continue our legacy.

In my childhood memory, eating crepes was a delicacy.  We lathered butter, cinnamon, sugar, brown sugar, homemade strawberry or raspberry jam then rolled the crepe tightly.  Then we poured the maple syrup, enough to cover the crepe and create a puddle in the bowl.  It is no wonder that my brother and I ran around for hours after breakfast, burning off the sugar we had devoured.

I still make my mother’s, grandmother’s, great grandmother’s crepes.  The taste lives in my palette, my mouth watering as I write this.  This speaks so much of where I am from, the simplicity of my youth, the consistency of generations.  But as in all family histories, I have had to write my own story.  Yes, the recipe that has been used for generations is the same, but now I add a dash of vanilla or a pinch of nutmeg, telling signs of my difference and originality. 

            I hope to experiment with dinner crepes soon, a novelty that I have only eaten in Paris and Quebec.  Perhaps Sophie can also add her own flare when she becomes older.  She, too, will take the teachings of her mother, her grandmother, her great grandmother, and her great-great grandmother and make them her own. 

I want my daughter to know where she comes from.  I want her to hear her grandmother’s voice through mine.  I want her to taste the sweetness of her great-grandmother’s crepes.  I want her to take the recipe that I will give to her and make it her own.

Heritage is not always material.  I have my grandmother’s hope chest that will be hers someday.  I have my mother’s ring that I will give to her when she marries.  And I have our crepe recipe.