Do you like pancakes in the wintertime? I like pancakes anytime. But I am particular about my pancakes. Do I have a pancake story for you? You betcha!

When I was first married, pancakes for breakfast was the usual fare. I didn't use a mix. My pancakes were the real thing – from scratch. I thought they were pretty good. My husband thought so, too, but to spoil the complement he would add, “I sure do miss Mother's pancakes and milk gravy.” I heard about her fabulous pancakes and milk gravy over and over and over again.

Misfortunes happen in every family. Myrtle had lost her home. She moved in with us. Please understand that she wasn't my favorite person, but I made do. Isn't that often the way it is with mother-in-laws? She washed and ironed her clothes. I washed and ironed our clothes. I did the cooking and cleaning. She watched TV. My husband was still bragging up her pancakes and milk gravy.

I finally had enough. “Myrtle, Pug (his name was Kenneth but everyone called him Pug) has told me about your wonderful pancakes and milk gravy. Tomorrow is Saturday. Would you like to make some for him. It would be a special treat, I know.” She agreed to make her pancakes and gravy. I would watch and learn.

I could hardly wait for Saturday. What was so wonderful about her pancakes? There had to be something special that had set this so firmly in his memory. Or was it the milk gravy? Did she have a secret ingredient? I could hardly wait.

Saturday morning arrived. I sat at the kitchen table armed with paper and pencil. Myrtle placed a bowl on the table and added several handfuls of plain flour, a pinch of salt and a sprinkling of baking powder. She didn't measure a thing! How could I learn how to make her wonderful pancakes and milk gravy if she didn't measure anything? She told me that was the way she cooked, a pinch of this and a handful of that. She didn't need to measure. Her's was the old-fashioned way of cooking, she smugly replied, as she poured some milk into the flour. No sugar or egg, just a paste of flour and milk with a little baking powder and salt. No baking soda either. I didn't write anything down. OK, what's next?

Myrtle sat the bowl aside as she made the milk gravy that my husband had bragged about. After pouring some milk into a saucepan, she sat it on a burner to heat. Next, she stirred up a paste of flour and milk. I watched in horror as she stirred the mixture into the hot milk. That was it. The only difference from the pancake batter was the salt and baking powder. The mixture thickened, she moved the pan to the back of the stove and prepared to fry the pancakes.

When the griddle was hot enough, she added some lard to melt. Then she poured out a big pancake, turned it and plopped it on a plate. A ladle of her incredible milk gravy was poured over the pancake. Myrtle triumphantly placed her “claim to fame” before my husband. He had been sitting at the table with a cup of coffee patiently waiting for this remembrance of his childhood. It looked awful to me. She offered to fix a plate for me. “No, thank you, Myrtle.” I sat there with my cup of coffee and my untouched pad of paper, waiting to see what would happen next.

Memory is a fickle thing. It plays games with your mind. Or is it that our taste in food changes over time. Either way, he took one bite and somehow swallowed it. Myrtle stood there with the pancake turner in her hand ready to bake another pancake, waiting for the complement she was sure to come. She waited in vain. Pug couldn't eat it. That one bite was it. Myrtle was heartbroken. I wanted to howl with glee but knew better than to make such a display. Pug said that he wasn't really that hungry and, anyway, he had yard work to do. I have never seen him so anxious to leave the table. Pug never mentioned pancakes and milk gravy again. Neither did I.