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Makayla King

Mrs. Szetela

English 1010

1/08/18

My Feeling of “Home”

Home is a warmth in your chest that never subsides. It is the tingle in your fingers and

toes once you place them in front of the fire on a winter evening. Home is the poise string of

perfectly constructed poetry in a gripping novel that leaves you in a nostalgic catatonia and

cozied up beside the dim lamplight. Home is usually described as the plume of smoke that comes

from the oven spreading the mouth-watering aroma of warm cookies, or grandma’s pie. But, my

definition of home is the sweet whipped filling that kisses the delicate dough of a crepe.

The rain taps softly against the glass of the bay window, a knock, a plea to be free to

caress the ceramic tile in the kitchen with its cool elegance. The hanging chandelier with its

brushed bronze vinery illuminates the room and makes the crepes glow. Snow swirls outside that

same bay window, pressing their faces against that same glass… melting as they yearn to see us

licking our fingers of nutella and seating ourselves at the table to enjoy the sweet breakfast, the

winter sacrifice. Leaves nestle against the window pane, trying to squeeze their crisp bodies

inside to share the warmth, for they yearn to be alive and vibrant with forest greens; the way we

are alive and vibrant in the wake of early risers. Sunshine exhales its heated breath onto our bay

window and falls gracefully onto plates licked clean and reflects off of silver cutlery. The

sunshine enviously reaches for our lips, yearns to feel the warmth that it so selflessly gives away.

There is different scenery and yet a constant remains, our crepes. A breakfast food we share as a

family… as a group. Food brings people together, the way our crepes bring us together as a
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family. No one can allow their stomachs to grow cold as the smell of sweet dough wafts to the

loft and sweetens everything in its wake, the air… our moods.

According to Martha Stewart, famously known for her cooking, the way to make crepes

is,“In a blender, combine flour, sugar, salt, milk, eggs, and butter. Puree until mixture is smooth

and bubbles form on top, about 30 seconds. Let batter sit at least 15 minutes at room temperature

(or refrigerate in an airtight container, up to 1 day; whisk before using). Heat a 12-inch nonstick

skillet over medium. Lightly coat with butter. Add 1/3 cup batter and swirl to completely cover

bottom of skillet. Cook until underside of crepe is golden brown, 2 to 3 minutes. Loosen edge of

crepe with a rubber spatula, then with your fingertips, quickly flip. Cook 1 minute more. Slide

crepe out of skillet and repeat with remaining batter. (Coat pan with butter as needed.)” (Stewart,

Para. 3) Although there are other ways to make crepes, this recipe is the most popular and is the

recipe that my family uses. It is in this process that we feel togetherness, we experience it first

hand. As fingertips sneak away crepe batter. My little sister shoves her fingers into her mouth

and giggles as my mother shakes her head and guards the bowl protectively, arm covering the

metal as she whisks… whisks… whisks. Not only does our family pride itself in our honesty, we

pride our ability to share and to give. When we make delectibles such as strawberry crepes we

have shared our tradition with extended family and friends in hope that this fuzzy warmth that

we feel when we prepare and when we share may be felt by the ones that we love.

“Its Crepe Night!” My sister’s husband exclaims. Some consider this “Breakfast for

dinner night.” We just consider this momentous day our Crepe Night. Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong.

Goes the doorbell. Tap. Tap. Rap. Goes dry knuckles on doors. The message had been received.

It could almost be considered a holiday in our family. In comes my sister and her husband,

Daylon. Next comes Daylon’s brother and his girlfriend, howling like wild animals. Wild…
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hungry animals. Before the crepe making begins we embrace them all. It was the moment that

the ones that we loved entered, the room became a little warmer, the lights a little golder, the

music a little softer, and soon the crepes a lot more sweeter. The griddle began to warm and I

couldn’t help but become drawn to the golden hue of the warming butter as it popped quietly and

fizzled to create a warm and welcoming hug for the soft dough. We created music in the kitchen.

The soft glow of candlelight on mahogany cabinetry created a culminating backdrop. Fizzle.

Pop. The melody of hushed voices. The silver tongue of a knife biting its way into bloody

strawberries and the sharp crack of the metal slapping the wooden cutting board made a beat.

I marveled at the way something so simple and sweet could bring together a family of

such differences and amalgamate us so splendidly. Pondering over where we first began our

tradition, I stumbled upon the past of an idea. The idea of a crepe. I found that it’s name

originated from the Latin word crispus, meaning curled. I could see the direct interrelationship

between the word curled and the curling of paper thin pancakes.The crepe was said to have

originated from the Breton Moors, in the arrival of buckwheat on the rocky, barren promontory.

This reminded me nothing of a crepe. It was barren and a crepe was warm and golden. Perhaps it

may have been rocky with mounds of fresh strawberries drowning in fluffy ivory whipped cream

afloat the golden sea. The crepe originated from France and is a widely known and eaten dessert.

These super-ultra thin pancakes seem to be the lasting fad, such a fad that on February 2nd there

is a holiday in its honor; the day of the Crepe. Chuckling, I realized we had the night of the

crepe. It must have been odd to the Frenchies to see that us uncultured Americans prefer our

breakfast before bed. “The date commemorates the winter’s decline and the coming light of the

spring. Families celebrate this moment with a meal of crepes together.” (King, Para. 5) People

alter this dish in favorable ways but it stays consistent in its savory sweetness.
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There is another story of origin for the crepe, and this is the Crepes Suzette which is the

most famous Crepe dish in the world. “The dish was created out of a mistake made by a fourteen

year-old assistant waiter Henri Carpentier (1880-1961) in 1895 at the Maitre at Monte Carlo’s

Cafe Paris. He was preparing a dessert for the Prince of Wales, the future King Edward VII

(1841-1910) of England.” (Para. 3) The following quote is from the fourteen-year old,

“It was quite by accident as I worked in front of a chafing dish that the cordials caught

fire. I thought I was ruined. The Prince and his friends were waiting. How could I begin all

over? I tasted it. It was, I thought, the most delicious melody of sweet flavors I had every tasted.

I still think so. That accident of the flame was precisely what was needed to bring all those

various instruments into one harmony of taste . . . He ate the pancakes with a fork; but he used a

spoon to capture the remaining syrup. He asked me the name of that which he had eaten with so

much relish. I told him it was to be called Crepes Princesse. He recognized that the pancake

controlled the gender and that this was a compliment designed for him; but he protested with

mock ferocity that there was a lady present. She was alert and rose to her feet and holding her

little shirt wide with her hands she made him a curtsey. ‘Will you,’ said His Majesty, ‘change

Crepes Princesse to Crepes Suzette?’ Thus was born and baptized this confection, one taste of

which, I really believe, would reform a cannibal into a civilized gentleman. The next day I

received a present from the Prince, a jeweled ring, a panama hat and a cane.”

There are different renditions of this particular dish, and therefore many different origins.

But either way this dish holds a special place in many people's hearts across the world and

throughout times, the way it holds a special place in mine.

But, there had to be a specific origin of the crepe meal for my family in particular, a time

in which we decided that the thin spread batter was utterly delicious and we relished in the
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absolute sanctity of this god-given dish… even if the only thing our faith was being placed into

was a pastry. Even Henri Carpentier believed this meal would turn even the most savage human-

being into a respectable person… not that we were savage in any way, respectability was always

a trait to be had. There must be a holy ingredient hidden within its thin delicate layers so expertly

crafted. There was a time and a place, we had had crepes before… and they were unique in the

way they almost massaged our tongues and kissed our taste buds. But, on Christmas morning, the

snow was particularly ferocious and moaned outside our sliding glass door. It screamed and

begged to be tamed, but that wild beast was beautiful to witness. The blizzard reminded me of a

women, her silvery hair untamed and askew. Her pale face and ice eyes cold and hard, but

beautiful. She stared at me through my window, through the knotty alder shutters and in my first

waking moments I felt a connection with this woman I named the storm. I felt a deep longing to

be apart of her white winded amorphous chaos. It was in this state of deep thinking that I was

able to, once coming face to face with our Christmas morning crepe breakfast, truly ponder and

appreciate its simple sweetness.

We were all gathered around the table, swaddled up in soft fleece blankets, knees to our

chin spooning in mouthfuls of crepe. I believe that when we are content with our lives, we are

able to think deeper, in the way I thought of the women in the storm. It is in this way that my

family came together. There were no words that were required to express our appreciation of one

another besides the thanking of my mother for making the dish. We sat in silence, besides the

occasional clink of cutlery on glass plates and smiled at each other. The vibrant strawberries

contrasted so beautifully against the pale crepes and matched so perfectly with the holly berries

decorating our centerpiece. We had created this culture of togetherness and solidarity, even if

there were times when we hardly saw each other or when we fought incessantly. It seemed that
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this Christmas meal that we were “trying” out for the first time brought a mood to the morning

that was unlike other Christmas frenzies.

These memories of Christmas mornings are extremely vivid. The smell of Christmas is

unique and delectable, divine and extravagant in the way that you can almost taste the cinnamon

you smell and the smell of peppermint brings to mind the peppermint laced evergreen. Now, it

seems as though the smell of crepes and fresh fruit brings to mind the vivid image of that content

Christmas morning, and it is almost as if that contentedness transfers through my memories to

my current state. This phenomena of smell being closely linked with memory is known as,

“odor-evoked autobiographical memory” (Mercola, Para.2) and I associate it strongly with

foods.

I close my eyes. I can almost smell the heat coming from the island in our traditional

kitchen. My mom is burning her christmas candles. Her favorite is Winter Wonderland. I can

smell it. I can almost taste its sweetness. I can hear the music playing in the living room. Soft,

softer than the hum of voices. I’ve grown to love the chaos of my family. So many of us litter the

household that I’ve become afraid of vacant livingrooms and quiet kitchens. But, it is as if I’m

not there to interfere when I close my eyes. My mom laughs at something my brother said.

Something falls to the floor upstairs and a loud thud is heard, silence, then “I’m okay!”

Conversations resume. Chaos continues. Stories start up where they were interrupted. Eyes

closed again. A guitar has began to play to my right in the living room and my older sisters voice

is carried through the household… soft and saccharine. Gregory and the Hawk soars, the feathers

of her voice brush up against our cheeks and provokes in me such emotion in that moment that I

forget that around me erupts more chaos. The buzz of voices seem to cease in the household in

which music has been bred and fed so well, a place in which my father has urged us to feel
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smooth piano notes beneath our fingertips or to grow callused from shoving bronze strings

against the belly of the fretboard. Because, we are writers. We are musicians. We are artists. We

create beautiful music in which the wings of our voices wrap around one another, and perhaps

that is why are home is abundant with warmth. We aren’t always together. It is a day to

remember when we are. Not every family is as close as mine. Our family, I know, is a family to

provoke envy. Not from all of the things that we have, the size of our house, or the cars that we

drive. We have a gift. A gift that, no matter where we are placed or where we end up or wherever

we are, we are able to make that place feel like home.

What is home? Is it that frost covered winter evening in which you hover near the fire

and feel your phalanges slowly thaw? Or is it the world beyond the words in the Dean Koontz

novel you can’t seem to put down while you are cuddled up on the lazyboy? Is it the sound of

your mother’s hushed voice as you whisper secrets one night cuddled up on your bed because

you didn’t want to sleep alone? Or is it that smell. Is it that smell… the smell of your house in all

of its distinctness. There are many things that mean home. Your favorite blanket, your English-

Creme Golden Retriever excitedly greeting you at the door, or t he feel of soft leather couches.

But, what seems to provoke this extremely quaint feeling of home the most, is the delicate crepe

that warms and feeds not only our stomachs but our souls.
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Work Cited

“Simple Crepes.” Martha Stewart, Martha Stewart, 22 May 2017,

www.marthastewart.com/335089/simple-crepes. Accessed 24 Sept. 2017

King, Gemma. “A History Of The Crepe, France's Delectable Staple.” Epicure &

Culture, 18 Nov. 2015, epicureandculture.com/french-crepe/

“Crepes Suzette History and Recipe.” What's Cooking America,

whatscookingamerica.net/History/CrepesSuzetteHistory.htm.

“Why Sense of Smells Can Trigger Strong Memories.” Mercola.com,

articles.mercola.com/sites/articles/archive/2015/08/06/smells-trigger-memories.aspx.