Saturday Morning Pancakes
I took a much-needed break from blogging the past couple of days. November really wiped me out. I don't know that I'll attempt NaBloPoMo again. I can just say it's one thing I've already done, and cross it off of my list. On the other hand, it gives friends and family a nice glimpse into the lives of the little ones. Let's see what I decide next year.
I went for my usual Saturday morning long run yesterday. It had started to snow, just as I headed out, so the entire time I was running, I was covered in little flakes of snow and ice. My face was cold, and ice collected in my eyelashes. I was actually enjoying the run, though. About 51 minutes into it, a blast of cold air blew by that carried the scent of hot buttered pancakes. My mouth watered.
When I was a kid, my dad didn't do much cooking. He COULD cook -- he got married at 32, but had been on his own for a long time, so I imagine he sustained himself somehow. But before my mom went back to work, he had no need to cook. However, on Saturday mornings, he made the family pancakes. I bet that some morning, the conversation might have gone like this:
And a Saturday morning ritual had been born.
I don't know how long he did this, but to this day, I can taste the pancakes and smell the aroma. He didn't make large, fluffy cakes like restaurants do. He whipped up the mix with a whisk for many minutes, infusing the air bubbles into the batter. He made the batter very thin, by adding milk. And to make sure the flavor was impeccable, he added melted butter and maple syrup. Sweet and buttery. Yum.
His pancakes were not the size of dinner plates. He ladled out the batter onto the griddle in scoopfuls, but just enough to make a pancake the size of a very small teacup saucer. Dad watched them religiously as they cooked. He'd turn them at just the right moment, and then, he'd top them with more butter. Dad probably got a good 30 pancakes out of a batch the way he made them, and when he gave us a plate, he'd load up 6 or 7 into the stack.
I can't tell you how full and satisfied I was after eating Dad's hot, buttered pancakes. I shutter now to thing of all the artery clogging that might come from those Saturday mornings, but I have a memory that will last a lifetime.
I don't think my pancakes will serve the same purpose for the kids; they won't remember that I add a touch of vanilla if I am using a store bought mix, or that, if I make them from scratch, I actually use real buttermilk. My kids don't even like butter on their pancakes (butter is really reserved for baking in this house, not cooking), so the scent will not conjure images of me at the stove, serving up cakes full of love.
I do hope the kids find their own aroma that stops them mid-track, some day when they are in their late 30s. It is a wonderful feeling -- one that everyone should experience
I went for my usual Saturday morning long run yesterday. It had started to snow, just as I headed out, so the entire time I was running, I was covered in little flakes of snow and ice. My face was cold, and ice collected in my eyelashes. I was actually enjoying the run, though. About 51 minutes into it, a blast of cold air blew by that carried the scent of hot buttered pancakes. My mouth watered.
When I was a kid, my dad didn't do much cooking. He COULD cook -- he got married at 32, but had been on his own for a long time, so I imagine he sustained himself somehow. But before my mom went back to work, he had no need to cook. However, on Saturday mornings, he made the family pancakes. I bet that some morning, the conversation might have gone like this:
Dad: Boy, pancakes sound good right now.
Mom: Well then, make them. I do the cooking all week.
Dad: All right, then.
And a Saturday morning ritual had been born.
I don't know how long he did this, but to this day, I can taste the pancakes and smell the aroma. He didn't make large, fluffy cakes like restaurants do. He whipped up the mix with a whisk for many minutes, infusing the air bubbles into the batter. He made the batter very thin, by adding milk. And to make sure the flavor was impeccable, he added melted butter and maple syrup. Sweet and buttery. Yum.
His pancakes were not the size of dinner plates. He ladled out the batter onto the griddle in scoopfuls, but just enough to make a pancake the size of a very small teacup saucer. Dad watched them religiously as they cooked. He'd turn them at just the right moment, and then, he'd top them with more butter. Dad probably got a good 30 pancakes out of a batch the way he made them, and when he gave us a plate, he'd load up 6 or 7 into the stack.
I can't tell you how full and satisfied I was after eating Dad's hot, buttered pancakes. I shutter now to thing of all the artery clogging that might come from those Saturday mornings, but I have a memory that will last a lifetime.
I don't think my pancakes will serve the same purpose for the kids; they won't remember that I add a touch of vanilla if I am using a store bought mix, or that, if I make them from scratch, I actually use real buttermilk. My kids don't even like butter on their pancakes (butter is really reserved for baking in this house, not cooking), so the scent will not conjure images of me at the stove, serving up cakes full of love.
I do hope the kids find their own aroma that stops them mid-track, some day when they are in their late 30s. It is a wonderful feeling -- one that everyone should experience
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