I never referred to pancakes as flapjacks, but my grandfather told me once that my great-great-grandfather called them that. This tracks with the Google AI factoid that people started using “pancake” in the 1870s. (Google also informed me that the terms are synonymous in the United States but that “flapjacks” in the UK are more like granola bars.) I remember my grandmother’s mother calling them “griddle cakes,” but she might have been doing that to make fun of me thinking she was old.

When I was a kid, pancakes meant Bisquick and Log Cabin syrup—when we had them at all, which wasn’t often because my mother doesn’t like syrup of any sort. We tended to have french toast, instead, slathered in butter and powdered sugar (and syrup, for my dad and me—a real diabetic nightmare). It took me forever to learn how to cook them for myself—I was generally working on my own before my dad was awake, so nobody was around to explain to me that the things should be more bubble than batter before flipping them. This took a lot of trial and error.

When I would visit my grandparents, my grandfather chose weekend pancake breakfasts as a field of experimentation. We had buckwheat pancakes, wheat germ pancakes, cornmeal cakes. He bought syrup in a dizzying array of shades and flavors. Some of these concoctions were great, but he never wrote anything down and we never had the same thing twice, so you literally had to be there.

My husband is a pancake perfectionist. Only maple syrup will do, not “pancake syrup.” He has his own special recipe. If there’s no buttermilk in the house, ain’t no pancakes on the table. But if you’re ever privileged enough to be here for this meal, you’ll see why he’s so particular. 

This is a stark contrast to the worst (and funniest) pancake experience of my life. A million years ago, before meeting my husband, I was dating this other guy, and it was serious enough that when his parents came to visit, we thought it would be nice if they met our parents. Various scheduling conflicts resulted in this having to be a brunch meeting, which was strike one for my parents, who rarely got up before 11 a.m. on weekends in those days, and we went to a place that was inconveniently located, which meant we all had to be up by 8 to be there by the 11 a.m. reservation.

We arrive and discover that it is a very frou-frou place. “Trying way too hard,” was the assessment later made by the boyfriend. Lots of flowers, no room on the tables for food. Teeny tiny drinking glasses. You get the picture. So I’m looking at the menu and it is … problematic for me and my mother, who have the culinary taste of toddlers. The egg dishes all had some unpalatable aspect —spinach, onions, tomatoes. French toast smothered in fruit. Waffles checkered with pecans. But—a ha! The description of the pancakes just said “pancakes. Maple syrup.” As I have already mentioned, my mother doesn’t like syrup. She can stomach pancakes with a ton of butter and bacon, but generally she’s more of an egg and Tabasco gal. Well, there was no bacon anywhere on this menu, but she asked for extra butter and that crisis was averted.

Until the pancakes arrived. I took a bite a microsecond before my mother and realized they were made with oranges—not my favorite flavor and actually a bit more offputting than you might expect for pancakes, but another complete nonstarter for my mother. Unfortunately, my mouth was full, so I couldn’t warn her before she took a bite and made eye contact just as the taste hit her.

If I had been a better daughter, I would have flashed her an apologetic look and muttered to my dad to take her to In-N-Out on the way home. But I am a terrible daughter, and the hangdog look of horror mixed with disappointment on my mom’s face was so hilarious that I burst out laughing and practically spit my food. This outburst gave her enough time to transfer the bite to her napkin, but of course then everyone else at the table was wondering what had gotten into me, and I ratted her out because it absolutely did not occur to me to do anything else. The boyfriend’s parents were (1) perplexed that anyone would hate oranges, and (2) very solicitous about suggesting she order something else, which only made things more excruciating for my mother, whose whole plan for the meal was to fly under the radar and say as little as possible to the Very Nice Country Club Presbyterians with whom she had almost nothing in common. She demurred and pushed the food around on her plate, guzzled water—after fishing out the lemon—and made faces at me for the rest of the meal.

I assume she went to In-N-Out on the way home. I know it was about a decade before she attempted brunch anywhere—and then she was more about the bloody marys and champagne (but not mimosas!) than the food.