The Popover Promise

My first Christmas as a mother had me longing for childhood Christmases with my mom

- By KATHRYN BLOWERS, Orlando, Florida

It was still dark out when I fired up the oven that morning.

Teething pain had kept up my five-month-old daughter—and me—for most of the night. Now Lily was finally asleep, snuggled in a wrap on my chest. Moving slowly so as not to wake her, I whisked together eggs, milk, salt, flour and melted butter in a ceramic bowl. Even though I was ready to drop from exhaustion, it was Christmas morning and that meant popovers.

The humble pastries, served dripping with hot butter or jam, were our family’s holiday breakfast tradition going back for generations. My great-grandmother taught my grandma, who taught my mom, who taught me. Mom always says not to overmix the batter, I thought. I hope I’m doing this right.

I'd never made Christmas morning popovers without Mom. A few months earlier, she and Dad had moved from here in Florida to Hawaii to help my grandmother manage her farm. They tried to talk my husband, Charlie, and me into going with them, but it just wasn’t possible. They were 4,600 miles away, and I missed them something fierce. Especially Mom. Especially now, my first Christmas as a mom. I couldn’t even call her to see if I was doing a good job. It was the middle of the night there.

Suddenly, the bowl slipped from my hand and clattered against the table. Startled, Lily cried out in her sleep. There was hardly a spill, but I wanted to cry too. It was hard learning how to be a mom without having my own mom with me. A deep, aching loneliness overcame me. This isn’t what Christmas is supposed to feel like.