Besides the fact that they are scrumptious, there is another, even more important, reason that I love crepes. They have to be made one by one. You don't make them like pancakes, with little piles of batter on one big griddle. I pour a quarter cup of the batter into my crepe pan and then I stand there and watch until the edges start to look done. Then I carefully flip it over for a few seconds before sliding it onto the big serving dish.
Making them one by one means that it takes about an hour to make 50 crepes. And I can't leave the stove for one minute. They are delicate and need my attention, and they need it one crepe at a time. Standing for all of that time gives me a good excuse to think about my family for whom I am cooking.
I think about my husband who loves me to the end of the numbers and back. I think about how lucky I am to have a man that I love and respect love me back. He listens to me. He looks at me when I am talking to him and blushes.
I think about my sons, each one unique and crucial to my happiness. My older two boys are old enough now to have earned real grown-up respect from me. They are great men. Men. Not little boys anymore. That is hard to say.
My little boys who call me as I am leaving work to tell me they need me to come home right away because it was a hard day. Or that they need a hug. Young enough to still admit that they need help.
We stuff our crepes with fuit and cream and powdered sugar. But I stuff mine with love.