For many people in Russia thin pancakes or crepes called “blintzes” or “blinis” are associated with holidays like Maslenitsa or with funerals, as it’s a ceremonial food for the wake. In my house, however, blinis have always been a weekend staple, so I didn’t have to wait the whole year to enjoy them. With two grandmothers who were great cooks and Mom a wonderful cook in her own right, there was no shortage of tasty treats. And of course there were no restaurants in my childhood, so all was homemade from scratch. Funnily enough, both grandmas had different “specialties” and their signature dishes didn’t repeat. Even very common ones had their own spins. If it was chicken soup, Grandma Riva made it with homemade egg noodles, while Grandma Dora made hers only with rice. One made gefilte, the other fish aspic. One stewed chicken, the other rabbit. Crepes or, as we affectionately call them, blinchiks, are Grandma Riva’s crown jewel. And because my mom lived with her in-laws for a few years after she married my dad, she mastered it too, and continued to make them at home often. But my memory of blinchiks is of waking up in my grandparents’ home, when Grandma asks, “Blinchiks for breakfast?” “Of course!” I say. And she seemingly effortlessly whips a batch up in no time, and the kitchen smells so good, and it’s warm, and safe, there is fresh tea in the teapot or tea infuser (my grandparents were the only ones with the infuser, and I loved playing with it as a child), and here they are: the blinchiks, the sour cream, honey, and Baba’s amazing jams. Cooked from fruit grown in her garden and made by hand. Pear jam will forever be my favorite. Nothing beats early childhood memories like those! But here is my all-time favorite story about blinchiks & Baba Riva. When I was a teenager, I was of course much more into my friends than hanging out with my grandma. Grandpa Boris had passed away by that time, and she lived alone. I was 18 and went “out to town” with my classmates. There were maybe 6 or 7 of us. I honestly don’t remember what we did, but we found ourselves far from home at an hour when public transport no longer worked. It is hard to believe but this was before cell phones or credit cards. And we had no cash for taxis, even one taxi, and we all lived in different parts of town. I said: “Not to fret, my grandma lives nearby, she will not mind hosting us for the night.” And indeed she did not mind. She found places to sleep for us all in her apartment. She laughed and hung out with us. And in the morning, you guessed it, she quickly mixed batter for the hugest batch of blinchiks I can remember. March is the month she passed away. It will be 15 years without her. During these 15 years I’ve made her blinis hundreds of times. They always, and I mean always, come out right. In dorms and friends’ apartments, in special pans and scratched old ones. In Israel, Russia, and the USA I’ve made them. I taught cooking classes and shared the recipe of these blinchiks with numerous people. To honor my grandma’s memory. These days my daughter, whose middle name is Rebecca after Grandma Riva, regularly demands blinchiks on the weekend. The tradition continues. And my grandma lives on. One blinchik at a time.