Sam loves Elgin Street Diner pancakes. With the possible exception of beef & bean tacos, I can’t think of anything he consumes with more gusto or hearty appetite than the plate-sized flapjacks they serve up at our favourite breakfast spot. My own recipe isn’t a satisfying substitute for the diner’s thin, hint-of-vanilla, griddle hot treats—but then I haven’t tried that hard to imitate greatness. The pancakes are only part of Elgin Street’s Saturday morning charms. Sam loves it all: spotting the façade from the street while we’re parking; the self-conscious pleasure of walking alongside the crowded booths as we’re led to our table; the moot moment of deciding what to order before shyly requesting “pancakes and chock-lit milk please.”
He and I went on our own this past Saturday (Daddy is in Vegas on a “holli-trip,” as Sam has termed an absence that isn’t a business trip but also can’t be a holiday, obviously, since it doesn’t include him). As per tradition, we crayoned in the figures on the kids’ menu, Sam asking for the umpteenth time why it features a pig and a chicken (making me explain once again the origins of bacon and eggs: and if you think the pork convo is awkward, try explaining why a chicken squeezes out breakfast food!). With an anxious eye out for the arrival of pancake goodness, Sam strikes and re-strikes deals with himself about how much chocolate milk he’ll drink before his meal arrives. Same as it ever was.
But just as I’m thinking that this is a deja vu repeat of every diner visit we’ve ever enjoyed, I spot a toddler in the next booth peaking mischievously over the barrier. And I suddenly realize that I can’t remember the last time I had to give Sam the “bum down” reminder to sit while he eats. When did he stop standing up on his seat? Stop soliciting the smiles of strangers with his sticky grin? Stop trying to crawl under the table to see if anyone had dropped anything interesting and gummy? He was sitting there across from me, just chatting and colouring and waiting for breakfast.
While it was certainly strange for Jeremy and I to frequent this diner during my pregnancy and then in the early months of our baby’s life because the place had historically been associated with a raucous 2 a.m. pit-stop for poutine on the way home from the clubs up the street, I must admit that the chasm between Sam’s babyhood and his pre-schooler status sometimes gapes wider than that first rift. Another example, I suppose, of how ‘the years tell much of what the days never know.’
But then we cross Elgin to spend an hour or so in St Luke’s Park (the “Second Cup” park, as we termed it when Tracey used to drop Carter there with me & Sam on her way to work years ago). It was the first visit of the new season and Sam took an excited tour of the almost forgotten play structures, bravely trying the rock wall and checking to see if he was tall enough yet to survey the sights through the railing-mounted spy scope (yes!). All the while, he narrated his discoveries to me, pretending that he was a wizard and that he had built this castle for himself. As he rattled off its features, he paused for a long moment at a series of staggered Frisbee-style steps that ascend straight up to the second level and have always spooked him in the past. Then he turned, in character, to explain bewilderingly, “I don’t know WHY I built these in my castle. I can’t even use them!” before dashing for the safer staircase.
Baby steps, my little wizard. You’ll be scaling those heights this summer, I’m sure. And you’ll probably be cutting your own pancakes, too.
He and I went on our own this past Saturday (Daddy is in Vegas on a “holli-trip,” as Sam has termed an absence that isn’t a business trip but also can’t be a holiday, obviously, since it doesn’t include him). As per tradition, we crayoned in the figures on the kids’ menu, Sam asking for the umpteenth time why it features a pig and a chicken (making me explain once again the origins of bacon and eggs: and if you think the pork convo is awkward, try explaining why a chicken squeezes out breakfast food!). With an anxious eye out for the arrival of pancake goodness, Sam strikes and re-strikes deals with himself about how much chocolate milk he’ll drink before his meal arrives. Same as it ever was.
But just as I’m thinking that this is a deja vu repeat of every diner visit we’ve ever enjoyed, I spot a toddler in the next booth peaking mischievously over the barrier. And I suddenly realize that I can’t remember the last time I had to give Sam the “bum down” reminder to sit while he eats. When did he stop standing up on his seat? Stop soliciting the smiles of strangers with his sticky grin? Stop trying to crawl under the table to see if anyone had dropped anything interesting and gummy? He was sitting there across from me, just chatting and colouring and waiting for breakfast.
While it was certainly strange for Jeremy and I to frequent this diner during my pregnancy and then in the early months of our baby’s life because the place had historically been associated with a raucous 2 a.m. pit-stop for poutine on the way home from the clubs up the street, I must admit that the chasm between Sam’s babyhood and his pre-schooler status sometimes gapes wider than that first rift. Another example, I suppose, of how ‘the years tell much of what the days never know.’
But then we cross Elgin to spend an hour or so in St Luke’s Park (the “Second Cup” park, as we termed it when Tracey used to drop Carter there with me & Sam on her way to work years ago). It was the first visit of the new season and Sam took an excited tour of the almost forgotten play structures, bravely trying the rock wall and checking to see if he was tall enough yet to survey the sights through the railing-mounted spy scope (yes!). All the while, he narrated his discoveries to me, pretending that he was a wizard and that he had built this castle for himself. As he rattled off its features, he paused for a long moment at a series of staggered Frisbee-style steps that ascend straight up to the second level and have always spooked him in the past. Then he turned, in character, to explain bewilderingly, “I don’t know WHY I built these in my castle. I can’t even use them!” before dashing for the safer staircase.
Baby steps, my little wizard. You’ll be scaling those heights this summer, I’m sure. And you’ll probably be cutting your own pancakes, too.
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