‘Meanwhile they had come out into the kitchen, and Pippi cried,
Now we’re going to make a pancake, Now there’s going to be a pankee, Now we’re going to fry a pankye.
Then she took three eggs and threw them up in the air. One fell down on her head and broke so that the yolk ran into her eyes, but the others she caught skillfully in a bowl, where they smashed to pieces.
“I always did hear that egg yolk was good for the hair,” said Pippi, wiping her eyes…
While she was speaking Pippi had neatly picked the eggshells out of the bowl with her fingers. Now she took a bath brush that hung on the wall and began to beat the pancake batter so hard that it splashed all over the walls. At last she poured what was left onto a griddle that stood on the stove.
When the pancake was brown on one side she tossed it halfway up to the ceiling, so that it turned right around in the air, and then she caught it on the griddle again. And when it was ready she threw it straight across the kitchen right onto a plate that stood on the table.
“Eat!” she cried. “Eat before it gets cold!”‘ — Pippi Longstocking by Astrid Lindgren
Before I had this tiny girl human who has forever changed my life, I never thought Pippi could be real. I loved her when I devoured books as a child and still have the copy of Pippi Longstocking that my grandma gave me almost 40 years ago. I read it with my boys and we watched a TV movie based on the story. And even through three boys, Pippi’s adventures seemed outlandish. But today, today I made pancakes for the first time with this 19-month-old adorable tornado. About halfway through the process, I realized that somewhere in Sweden prior to 1945 there must’ve been a kid like mine.
I raised three boys and there were messes. Every. Single. Day. Huge messes. There are still messes. I’ve never been a mom who was particularly bothered by a mess, especially if the cause was cooking, creating, fun, or making memories. The messier the better, in fact! For a brief period of my daughter’s life, I had some moments of panic where I wondered what I’d do if she was one of those children who has to rush to wash her hands at the tiniest speck of dust. I no longer have those concerns.
My little Pippi munchkin…in the flesh, in my kitchen. Raw eggs on the floor (a whole egg), down the side of the stove from her vigorous whisking, flour on the counter, the stool, my shirt, and the dog, batter on all those places plus my pants, the cabinet doors, and various other locations that were within flinging distance. She was slinging batter as she raised her tiny arm over her head and shook the whisk to put more batter on the griddle that was just out of her reach. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen such a mess in a kitchen after making such a simple dish. Pancakes. By the time dinner was over, there was dried batter, dried egg, wet flour, sloshed milk, and every combination of them awaiting me in the kitchen, all covered in a layer of fine flour dust.
Memories. I keep telling myself. Memories. They’re made in the process. She’s learning through the process. Yesterday it was lipstick all over the white bedding after pee and peas were “shared” with my white comforter. Today, it’s a pancake explosion all over the kitchen. Every day is a surprise. Every day I realize that I wouldn’t change a thing over here in Villa Villekulla.