Nancy's Pancakes and Other Floppy Deals
For Ahuva
This book, Nancy’s Pancakes and Other Floppy Deals, is dedicated to you, Ahuva—the youngest of the bunch, but a soul somehow older than all of us put together.
Lover of horses and all living creatures, you’ve always had a special magic about you—a light of joy that sparks even in the gloomiest rooms. You’re the baby of the family in name only.
In wisdom, in humor, in talent—you tower. A singer, an artist, a creator of mischief and brilliance in equal measure. Even when you don’t mean to be funny, you are—which is perhaps the highest kind of comedy. You have unwittingly coined an entire litany of Ahuva-isms, family gems that no one else could’ve come up with, because no one else is quite like you.
You were named for two mighty women: your mother’s grandmother, Bubby Irma—so beloved that we called you Ahuva, which means "beloved" in Hebrew. You carry her humor and sense of adventure, both which carry on in her cookbook, and which was tasted by all who graced her abundant Shabbos table in the Old City.
And my own Grandma Rose—because you blossom like a rose in springtime, full of color, joy, and grace. Which is how she lived, even well into her 90's.
But you, too, have thorns when needed.
You’re soft and strong all at once. A true Sabra: prickly when you must be, but with the sweetest, most generous heart within.
This book is yours because, in more ways than one, you remind me of Nancy.
If you know the lore, you know what that name means to me. Not that you are her—no one ever truly will be. Nancy belonged to another time and place, and in this story, she is a creation all her own. But still, you echo her in the best of ways: fierce, brave, a champion for the underdog, wild in imagination, uncompromising in your love for what is good and true and beautiful. I hope you recognise your Orange tabby in Cleo, the wonder-cat, and I hope you have friends like Nancy does at school, without the bullies.
If animals could speak, I have no doubt you’d already be holding long conversations with them. Perhaps you do, and they just haven’t taught the rest of us how to hear.
Ahuva, may your light always shine. May your heart always stay open. And may your boundless, unbridled imagination always remain the bravest and most resilient thing of all.
Abba
Lover of horses and all living creatures, you’ve always had a special magic about you—a light of joy that sparks even in the gloomiest rooms. You’re the baby of the family in name only.
In wisdom, in humor, in talent—you tower. A singer, an artist, a creator of mischief and brilliance in equal measure. Even when you don’t mean to be funny, you are—which is perhaps the highest kind of comedy. You have unwittingly coined an entire litany of Ahuva-isms, family gems that no one else could’ve come up with, because no one else is quite like you.
You were named for two mighty women: your mother’s grandmother, Bubby Irma—so beloved that we called you Ahuva, which means "beloved" in Hebrew. You carry her humor and sense of adventure, both which carry on in her cookbook, and which was tasted by all who graced her abundant Shabbos table in the Old City.
And my own Grandma Rose—because you blossom like a rose in springtime, full of color, joy, and grace. Which is how she lived, even well into her 90's.
But you, too, have thorns when needed.
You’re soft and strong all at once. A true Sabra: prickly when you must be, but with the sweetest, most generous heart within.
This book is yours because, in more ways than one, you remind me of Nancy.
If you know the lore, you know what that name means to me. Not that you are her—no one ever truly will be. Nancy belonged to another time and place, and in this story, she is a creation all her own. But still, you echo her in the best of ways: fierce, brave, a champion for the underdog, wild in imagination, uncompromising in your love for what is good and true and beautiful. I hope you recognise your Orange tabby in Cleo, the wonder-cat, and I hope you have friends like Nancy does at school, without the bullies.
If animals could speak, I have no doubt you’d already be holding long conversations with them. Perhaps you do, and they just haven’t taught the rest of us how to hear.
Ahuva, may your light always shine. May your heart always stay open. And may your boundless, unbridled imagination always remain the bravest and most resilient thing of all.
Abba