“How do you feel about pancakes this morning?”
JG wanted pancakes, partially because we had a carton of buttermilk in the fridge. I agreed enthusiastically and he got to work, mixing up batter and heating up a griddle. We usually cheat our way past buying buttermilk (mixing a tablespoon of vinegar for every cup of milk) and it usually works, but lately, we’ve had a rash of runny, floppy, pancakes of disappointment. Having the buttermilk around gave us the first opportunity to actually follow the recipe.
“Your pancakes are almost ready,” JG called from the kitchen. “I think these are the best ones I’ve ever made.”
Well! This should be good.
I sat down at the table with a glass of orange juice and JG set down a plate stacked with four fluffy, steaming pancakes. “Ooh,” I breathed. The aroma alone indicated superior pancakes and I inhaled deeply. Following my usual procedure, I buttered between each layer and then spangled maple syrup over the whole stack. I’m a minimalist when it comes to syrup. I cut a wedge out of the quivering tower and steam wafted up. I admired the distinct strata of golden-brown-deliciousness, glistening butter, and gooey syrup. I speared the top two layers for my first bite. Each piece had absorbed a touch of butter and sweet syrup, but not too much so that the cake itself was overwhelmed. Puffy enough for a good bite but tender so as to melt in one’s mouth, the pancake was exactly the right answer on a Sunday morning.
“So, how is it?” he asked.