The darkened room was illuminated as a cell phone softly chimed. Reaching over, Sandra quickly silenced it and through bleary eyes checked the time. Seeing it was already five, she sat up and rubbed her eyes. As she got out of bed, the man lying beside her began to stir.

Gently touching his back, she whispered, “it’s all right Mark, go back to sleep.”

With a murmured, “okay,” he rolled over and was soon resumed snoring softly.

Putting on her robe and slippers, Sandra slowly opened the door and slipped outside. She stood there for a moment blinking as her eyes adjusted to the well-lit hallway. Walking to the stairs, her feet plodded soundlessly on the thick carpeting. Even so, she slowed when passing another doorway to ensure she didn’t awaken Mark’s parents.

Making her way downstairs, she could feel the air grow colder and a slight shiver went through her. Stepping off the stairs, the cold of the tiled floor shot right through her slippered feet like an electric shock. Undeterred, she continued on. Seeing the soft colorful glow from the living room, she couldn’t help but look in and admire the Christmas tree.

It filled a corner of the room and was covered in lights and ornaments. Beneath it lay an abundant pile of beautifully wrapped presents. She felt bad realizing that most of them were from Mark’s parents, since as newlyweds, she and Mark had little money to spend. His parents were wonderful people, instantly accepting her and treating her like a daughter when Mark had announced their engagement. That meant so much to her, especially since she’d lost her own parents just over four years ago.

Sandra thought she’d finally gotten over the loss, but the absence of her parents at her wedding had revived the painful memory. She did her best to push it aside, but mixed with her tears of joy were those fostered by the sad realization of all the future milestones her parents would never get to see. However, there was yet another reminder to come.

She found it while packing up her apartment after returning from her honeymoon with Mark. A yellowed index card with her mother’s handwritten Christmas pancake recipe. From her earliest memory, every Christmas morning would begin with a special pancake breakfast cooked by her mother. These weren’t ordinary pancakes, but a special family recipe that had been passed down for generations.

Sandra’s mother had given her the recipe just before her junior year of college. Her mother hadn’t made a big deal about it, saying she’d come across the recipe while looking for something else. At the time, Sandra didn’t attach much significance to it, but less than three months later her parents were gone, killed by a drunk driver.

She’d sat there a long while just staring at the recipe. The sight of her mother’s handwriting had brought tears to her eyes, but also wonderful memories of those rambunctious Christmas breakfasts. She and her brother would race to finish their pancakes with the winner getting to open the first present. She’d only won once and that was because her father had taken one of her pancakes while her brother wasn’t looking.

How she missed those times. Until seeing that recipe, she’d forgotten how much those Christmas morning breakfasts meant to her. That was why she was up so early: to continue the Christmas pancake tradition with her own family. She couldn’t think of any better way to celebrate her parents’ legacy.

Stirring herself from her reverie, she headed for the kitchen. It was a far cry from the one in her and Mark’s small apartment. Large expanses of gleaming white counter greeted her as she turned on the light. A stovetop graced the center island and above it perched a variety of pots and pans. None of this was new to her, but on that early Christmas morning everything seemed a little brighter and sharper.

From the pocket of her robe she pulled out the index card and smiled. No tears this morning, she resolved. Putting the index card on the counter, she started gathering all the ingredients she needed. While doing so, she wondered if her mother had felt this nervous the first time she made these pancakes.

She thought back to the Christmas when she was eight and had snuck out early to look at her presents. Even before she could pick one up, her mother had called out in an amused voice “Sandra!” Her mother had allowed her to sit at the kitchen table with milk and cookies while she prepared their special pancake breakfast. Remembering how she’d effortlessly moved about the kitchen seeming to do three things at one, Sandra couldn’t image her mother ever being nervous.

Grabbing three bowls from the cupboard, Sandra read over the recipe again and began combining ingredients. Gingerly digging a measuring cup into the flour canister, she scraped off the excess with a butter knife before sifting it into the bowl. Each squeeze of the sifter handle emitted puffs of white smoke as the flour drifted slowly downward into the bowl. After sifting each cup, she double checked the recipe and put a checkmark on a small notepad to keep track of how much flour she’d added.

It must have taken her nearly twenty minutes to finish adding all the flour, but she was in no rush. That’s why she’d gotten up an hour earlier than she needed to, to make sure everything was perfect. Next she added baking powder, cream of tartar, and just a pinch of salt. Just as with the flour, she worked slowly, not wanting to make any mistakes. Once all the dry ingredients were in the bowl, she gently mixed it all together with a small wooden spoon.

On that long ago Christmas when she’d watched her mother make the pancakes, Sandra had asked why she was mixing so slowly. Without a pause in her work, her mother had answered, “to keep the pancakes fluffy. Sifting the flour mixes air into it so we get nice light pancakes. If you mix the flour too hard after sifting it, you push out all that air.”

How Sandra wished her mother could see her now. The thought nearly made her break her resolution, but she continued mixing with slow, steady strokes. Once finished, she started combining the wet ingredients starting with the eggs. Unfortunately, while breaking the first one, she hit the side of the bowl too hard and the egg crumbled in her hand leaving a slimy, sticky mess.

Staring at the spattered egg, large tears began to fall from Sandra’s eyes. They continued as she washed her hands and cleaned the counter. She’d wanted everything to be perfect and she couldn’t even break an egg. Maybe this whole thing had been a mistake. Wanting it to be a surprise, she hadn’t told anyone what she was doing. All she had to do was clean up and go back to bed and no one would ever know.

Then she thought back to when her dad was teaching her to drive. The idea of getting into an accident had made her so nervous that she’d slow down to 10 miles per hour when making a turn and sit at a stop sign until there were no other cars in sight. Her father had tried to explain to her that doing this was dangerous, but she’d convinced herself that she had to drive that way to stay safe. It wasn’t until another car had nearly rear ended her when she’d jammed on the brakes before making a turn that she understood.

She’d just been able to pull to the side of the road before the tears burst forth. Sitting there crying, she fully expected her dad to get out of the car and have her move over so he could drive. He didn’t. Instead he gave her a reassuring hug and said, “just relax and you’ll do fine.” He’d been right. It wasn’t easy, but once she’d quit worrying about what could go wrong, driving no longer terrified her.

“I can do this,” she said to herself trying to sound convincing, but not entirely succeeding. Getting another egg, she got back to work. After beating the eggs, she added butter milk, melted butter, and honey. The final ingredient was a dash of seltzer water, but as she poured it, the bottle slipped from her hand. Fortunately, she grabbed the bowl so it didn’t spill, but the plastic bottle fell to the floor and bounced as it dispensed it contents around Sandra’s feet.

She stood there a moment angrily staring at the floor as she could feel the liquid soaking into her slippers. She may not be the greatest cook, but she’d never been this clumsy before. Stepping out of her slippers she picked them up and tip-toed over to put them in the sink. After drying her feet with some paper towels, she knelt down to sop up the spilled seltzer water.

The hard floor hurt her knees and she grew frustrated as the liquid would slop around as she tried to clean it up. It took nearly a full roll of paper towels, but at last the floor was dry. She wrung out her slippers as best she could and put them by the back door to dry. Without her slippers, the cold floor sent shivers up her legs and her feet began to ache.

Trying to put her clumsiness behind her, Sandra slowly stirred the liquid into the flour mixture until she’d achieved a slightly lumpy consistency. As she’d seen her mother do so many years before, Sandra lifted up a large spoonful of the batter and let it drizzle back into the bowl. She smiled as it fell slowly in a continuous stream just as it was supposed to.

Putting the batter aside, she started on the topping for the pancakes. Her mother had never been particularly fond of maple syrup saying it was far too sweet. Instead her pancakes were covered with a rich berry compote. As most berries were out of season around Christmas, her mother had always used frozen berries to make it. Sandra’s heart dropped: she’d forgotten to take the berries out of the freezer to defrost.

Filling the sink with hot water, she tossed in bags of blueberries, blackberries, and raspberries. To help them defrost faster, she occasionally stirred the water in the sink. Glancing at the clock impatiently, she saw it was nearly a quarter after six. She needed to get moving as she’d almost used up the extra time she’d allotted herself. To save time she put the griddle on the stove to start preheating.

Every few minutes she felt the berries and finally after another ten minutes she thought they’d defrosted enough. They were still a little hard, but she figured that once on the stove they’d get soft quickly. Bringing a pot over to the sink, she tore open the bags and emptied them into the pot. She put it on the stove and turned on the burner. She added some sugar and a cup of orange juice before giving it a good stir.

As the compote cooked, a wonderful aroma filled the kitchen. It made her think back to the last Christmas morning she’d spent with her parents. It was just Sandra and her parents as her brother hadn’t been able to get away from his new job in California. Even so her mother had made just as many pancakes as usual, far more than the three of them could eat.

“Just more for leftovers,” her father had laughed.

She’d only gotten home from college a few days earlier as she’d gone on a ski trip with some friends. At the time, she hadn’t noticed it, but thinking back on it now, her parents had seemed more subdued than usual. Maybe it was because it was the first time the entire family wasn’t together for Christmas.

She took a small ladle and poured some batter onto the griddle. Instantly it began to sizzle and smoke. Running to a drawer, she pulled out a pair of oven mitts and carried the griddle over to the sink where she ran cold water over it. A blast of hot steam erupted from the griddle as the water hit it. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. She’d started preheating the griddle almost half an hour ago and had never lowered the heat.

As she waited for the steam to dissipate, her thoughts once again turned to that last Christmas breakfast with her parents. They talked about how well her brother Paul was doing in his new job. There were also many questions about how college was going for Sandra.

Her parents had always loved history and Sandra had been exposed to it throughout her childhood. Not surprisingly, her first choice as a major in college had been history. However, the history classes she’d taken in college weren’t at all what she’d expected. She was now leaning more towards education and had worried about how her parents would react when she told them. Their reaction had surprised her.

“We were wondering when you’d finally realize that,” her father said with a chuckle.

Her mother nodded. “History is wonderful, but we could tell last year that you weren’t really enjoying your history classes. Besides, we think you’d be a wonderful teacher.”

“If you knew, why didn’t you tell me?” Sandra asked.

Her father just smiled. “Because it’s your life, and you need to choose how to live it. We give you the tools, but the final decision is yours.”

“And no matter what,” her mother added, “we’ll support whatever choice you make.”

Looking back on it now, she saw how right her parents were. Getting her teaching degree was the best thing she’d ever done. She loved teaching Kindergarten and she met Mark because he taught at the same school. She only wished her parents were still alive to see it.

A bubbling sound interrupted her thoughts. Rushing to the stove she saw the compote had started to boil. She quickly turned down the heat and stirred the compote. With a small spoon she took a taste and was happy to see that at least she hadn’t burned that. It tasted as good as she remembered.

She leaned against the counter and looked around the kitchen: her wet slippers sat by the back door and steam still rose from the griddle sitting in the sink. All she’d wanted to do was celebrate her parents’ legacy, but standing there she finally realized that it was more than just a special Christmas breakfast. That was a wonderful memory, but their true legacy was the impact they’d had on Sandra and her brother. Her parents had given them the confidence to be themselves and to choose their own paths in life. Trying to recreate her mother’s Christmas pancakes didn’t seem so important anymore.

She turned off the stove and removed the pot containing the compote from the heat. It took quite a bit of scrubbing, but she finally removed all the burnt pancake from the griddle. Watching the pancake batter pour into the disposal gave her a pang of guilt, but she knew she was doing the right thing. However, it seemed a terrible waste to throw out the compote, so she left it to cool as she put everything else away.

While putting the flour back in the pantry, she saw some boxes of muffin mix. Mark loved fresh baked muffins and she usually made some every weekend. Taking out a couple of boxes, she started mixing the contents in a bowl. As she was doing so, her eyes fell on the compote still sitting on the stove.

She stared at it for a moment and smiled. Bringing the pot over, she ladled some compote into the bowl and mixed it through. Looking at the result, she shook her head and added a little more. The resulting mixture was a nice vibrant purple.

She took a small taste of it and was pleased with the result. “Christmas muffins,” she said to herself with a smile. “I like the sound of that.”