We made pancakes yesterday, and of course when I say “we” I mean Steve totally by himself. I mean, I helped mix the ingredients, which I am simply fantastic at as long as you supervise me closely and do helpful things occasionally, such as taking the baking soda out of my hand and replacing it with baking powder, or telling me gently that we cannot use regular milk when it calls for buttermilk, nope, because they are not the same thing and it will make our pancakes taste funny. I also like to crack eggs. I just do not like the part where you have to take all the pretty batter you’ve concocted and pour it onto a pan. (I don’t like this with cakes and cookies, either, which is why I do not bake.)
So the actual Creation of the Pancakes was left wholly up to Steve, although I did run to check things out on the internet when we found out that we were messing up our pancakes horrendously. The first few burned on the outsides and did not cook straight through and moreover they were scrawny and strange-looking, and although they did not taste totally vile, I was a little leery of consuming them lest we get salmonella from the egg (but I did anyway).
Furthermore, some of my British flatmates were around, and I had been hoping to inspire them with amazement and awe for the yumminess of American pancakes, causing them to forsake their own pancakes (which, let’s just face it, are actually crepes) forever. Instead of this they searched around for something tactful to say and eventually they said, “American pancakes are fatter, right?”
With more desperation than conviction, I said, “These ones are not fat at all compared to the way they’re meant to be! They are so fat usually! Fat and delicious! They are plump and fluffy, and you pour maple syrup atop them! They are not usually burned like this! They are pleasantly browned and fluffy and plump!” My flatmates did not stick around hoping to be fortunate enough to get one of our pancakes, and they probably (as they fled to their rooms) shook their heads sadly over the tragic delusions harbored by their mad American flatmate.
Steve, however, was very stalwart, and he ultimately discovered that by keeping the burner at medium heat and putting in not very much oil at all, he could produce nice normal plump fluffy yummy American pancakes. By this time we had filled ourselves up eating charred salmonella-filled ones, so we had to put them in the refrigerator for another day, but it was a pleasant triumphant moment for dear Steve in his capacity as master chef. It is also one that I would never have experienced, because as soon as the first two pancakes came out charred, I would have been cast into despair and thrown the whole lot of batter away with hatred and bitterness in my heart for the accursed waste of money and time, and I would have eaten cornflakes instead, which are much less tasty even than charred salmonella-filled pancakes.
Anyway, the moral of this story is that pancakes are not as easy as you might think, and I regret very deeply every time that my dear sister Robyn made pancakes while I still lived at home and I failed to avail myself of their freely offered deliciousness.
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3 comments:
I adore making pancakes. I made pancakes every three or four days this summer in Duluth. You know, you often _can_ replace the buttermilk by ordinary milk if you add something else acidic to the batter. And you can replace baking powder by about half its volume in baking soda, plus some amount of acid (like cream of tartar) and a little bit of salt. *too lazy to buy real baking powder*
tim has the soul of a chemist.
Thank you. I appreciate that, because NO ONE ever ate my pancakes. I would bake them with high hopes that someone would eat more than a half of a pancake. Justice is served.
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