In school the last two days, we made crepes – along with six or seven other French dishes. Crepes take me back to my childhood. My father didn’t cook very often at home, but he was an expert at weekend breakfasts. When my older sister eulogized him at his funeral, she didn’t talk much about what a great man he was (in truth, he was often difficult), but she did expound the merits of his breakfasts – fresh apple fritters, deep-fat-fried French toast, and crepes.

He had a special pan reserved for this one task of crepe making and was forever tinkering with the recipe – in quest of the perfect batter and the perfect technique. These light pillows of heaven usually encased fresh macerated strawberries or my mom’s homemade raspberry preserves. He topped each envelope of goodness with powdered sugar, whipped cream, or both.

I spent many a weekend morning watching cartoons with my “coffee” (half milk, half coffee and 3 heaping spoonfuls of sugar) and munching on dad’s famous crepes. I’m proud that I can now carry on the tradition.



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