Meeting Aunt Jemima

When I was between four and six years old, I remember going to Resh's Red & White store in Indian Head, Pennsylvania. I was with my dad Carl Beck. I don't remember why we went to the store, but I do remember meeting Aunt Jemima. In a niche at one side of the store, she stood behind a gas heated griddle. The grill was about eighteen inches by twenty-four. She waited until I approached and asked if I would like to try the pancake mix and syrup. I looked at my dad. He gave a nod of approval. I felt tongue-tied and could only nod my assent. I was a shy and nervous. This was the first black person I can remember meeting and I wasn't used to being addressed by strangers.

She deftly poured three small rounds of the pancake batter onto the hot griddle. She smiled and began to talk to me as I stood there watching the silver dollar sized pancakes bake. (There were no protective barriers to keep my hands from the grill. Back then, people assumed children were intelligent enough not to touch hot things and to keep hands to themselves.

As my shyness waned, I looked up at her. Aunt Jemima had deep golden skin, a warm smile, and dancing brown eyes. She was wearing a red and white gingham dress with a bright red head scarf. Around her ample waist she had a sparkling white apron tied in the back.

With practiced movements, she flipped the small pancakes over. As she did, the aroma seemed to fill the area and made my mouth water. I remember seeing steam rising from those small golden brown discs. They had been baked to a color several shades lighter than Aunt Jemima's skin.

She continued talked as the cakes baked. I can't remember what she said, but I can remember her sparkling teeth of her beautiful smile. She had a wonderful laugh that seemed to tickle, even though she never touched me.

I watched as she reached for a white paper saucer. Holding it near the griddle, she waved her  spatula and the golden coins moved to the plate. Laying her metal scepter aside, she picked up a tall glass bottle filled with Aunt Jemima pancake syrup. Unscrewing the cap, she drizzled thick, brown sweetness over the cakes on the saucer. Setting the syrup aside, a small wooden fork seemed to magically appear in her hand. She placed it on the saucer with the pancakes covered in the syrup. Handing the plate to me, she said, "Here you go. Taste them, but be careful. They’re still hot."

She smiled again. I recall that the cakes and syrup seemed to taste wonderful. I never saw the woman again, but this is a tribute to the impression that she made on me with this brief encounter. She has imprinted herself on my memory.