Architecture of a stack of Pancakes.

A friend of mine named Erich once told me about this web site where you can go to leave and read recipes for pancakes. Ironically, my wife and I just started making pancakes back then as a weekend breakfast treat. Before we were married, I used to make her pancakes as a way of showing her I was quite a catch. We soon found ourselves making different recipes for pancakes, and having fun with the old and the new ways of making them. We came up with quite a few unique recipes, and I would like to share them with you.

But first, I want to tell you the story of the first time I had pancakes.

When I was a small child, my father used to make all five of my brothers and sisters, pancakes in our small kitchen located in suburban Lakewood, Ohio. I remember it well because he would use two ingredients in his famous Sunday morning pancake recipe.

The first ingredient was the right mix. That's right. The right pancake mix. He would take the pancake powder and whip it up (I believe it was Bisquik or something like it). He would follow the directions on the box, making sure to add all the proper ingredients in their proper proportions at the proper time the box dictated (cracking eggs, pouring milk in measured amounts and so fourth).

Then he would put a big iron skillet on the stove (you know the kind, the kind that is really huge and heavy - the kind that a cartoon character might get hit in the face with, and take on that shape). He’d slow heat that puppy up until the butter melted really quickly (without burning it). He’d pour out a few smaller pancakes at first, sometimes silver dollar size shaped ones. But the best was when he’d pour the HUGE pancake. The pans surface would hiss with the spatter of batter, as its surface was completely smothered.

Then, at precisely the correct moment, he would add a special ingredient. This ingredient came to be known as the SECRET INGREDIENT. A secret ingredient that his parents used, and their parents used who had it passed down from their parents in the old country. They started the tradition of passing it down from generation to generation. And now, my father was about to pass it down to me. I was seven years old when my father shared with me the recipe that included the heavily guarded SECRET INGREDIENT (The one of years-bygone, of yesteryear and days of old). My father leaned over and whispered the secret ingredient in my ear. He said one word. And that word was ‘love’.

The secret ingredient was love!

I wasn’t sure what he meant by that – I was a little confused – love of the pancakes? Love of the eating of the pancakes? Love of the taste of the pancakes? I just didn’t know, but I could tell when he served up that one huge pancake, the size of the iron skillet – I just knew, by the look on his face, he loved to make pancakes.

When the surface would start to bubble a little he would check under the pancake with his spatula. When the pancake became covered in craters, it was time to flip. With a smile on his face and caution to the wind he would flip that big boy nice and hi in the air, giving it a good clearance to complete the 180 degree maneuver. Sometimes he’d miss, but more times than not he’d catch that pancake square in the center of the skillet. He made each one of the tribe their own huge pancake.

It was so big that I had to eat the edges first. So I would make straight cuts to turn the pancake into a giant square. Then I would cut the corners off to form a smaller square. Then I would cut the corners off it to form even a smaller square – etc. etc. – eating all the way. Until I was down to a square the size of my fork. If I could still eat it, I would stuff that last part into my mouth. And the whole thing was gone.

Now that I’m older and have my own kids, I can experience things from my Dads point of view. Through my children, I can re-play moments of my childhood. Oh, I still eat pancakes the very same way. Sometimes I change it around, like an architect building an efficient domicile, bisecting one of the squares and stacking them upon each other, but the simple part is always the same: eating them!

My wife and I don’t make pancakes as often as we used to. With little kids it’s hard to get the time and attention needed to do it, yet somehow my old man did. I guess the first time my oldest daughter asks about why I eat pancakes the way I do, I’ll tell her about her grandfather and his special recipe. So far she hasn’t asked. But someday she will and like my father before me, and his before him and his before him, I’ll serve up one huge pancake of her own and lean over and whisper in her ear the secret ingredient that I find was there all the time:

Love.



Chip K.

Open Letter to Joe

Dear Joe,

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be a hero.

When the Isuzu Trooper was hit with a sheet of ice from another SUV in front of us on the way to Cleveland for Christmas, and when it came crashing through the windshield and sprayed me in the face with glass and ice and snow, and showered my wife and twins in the back seat and I was blinded for a moment or two, Liz said I was a 'hero' for saving their lives. She said I was their hero for not panicking, for finding a way to drive on while looking through the narrow hole at the top of the shattered windshield. She said I was a hero for not stopping and causing another accident on the snow covered highway, and for getting us the rest of the way to grandma’s house without incident. She called me a hero for keeping my calm and for keeping us all alive that day, especially Chloe who was in the front seat with me - and had Ice and glass all over her head and hands (I was a hero to her but she was brave anyway. She just kept very still until we could vacuum the ice and glass off her hands before they cut her, complaining only once by saying; "Daddy, I just want to move back to California").

That day after Christmas got me thinking about a lot of things.

I wanted to let you know that I am no hero. Just a father, doing what a father does to protect his family. I am writing you this letter because I wanted to tell you that as one father to another, YOU are MY hero. For you are doing everything I did that day to protect my family, everyday - for countless families here and in Iraq. YOU are the true hero, Joe.

I know at Thanksgiving we said some things about our political differences and the discussion got quite heated. We may not see eye to eye on the current political situation here and abroad, you are certainly a man of great conviction and I am proud to call you my brother. I didn’t want you to go to Iraq – I still don’t – but as long as you are there saving lives everyday, you have my support and my love. I will do what I can to help Barb and the kids during your yearlong service in Iraq. You have a great head on your shoulders, so I only ask that you use your instincts fully and come home alive.

I will ALWAYS be proud to call you my brother.

All my love,

Chip

COFFEE IS GOOD.

Coffee is good, very good. I like to start my day off with a nice hot cup of coffee. When I don’t make it myself at home, I try to patronage a small café and give them my business. When I was in college, café’s were all the rage – popping up everywhere on campus. There was this one small place I used to go called The Brazillia Café - on High Street. It’s long gone now, but in it’s day it was the gold standard for small biz coffee shop hang-outs. In that café I wrote my first book called ‘Coffea House Poetry’ (I miss-spelled coffee! On accident! We didn’t have SPELLCHECK back then), and I published it at KINKOS. It was a collection of bad poems written by two guys on way too much caffeine, and with too much time to kill. I am forever comparing coffee shops to the Brazillia Café. But there are few Ma and Pa operations around where I live now (at least none I’ve discovered). Luckily there is always a Starbucks around when you need one.

The thing about having a Starbucks on every corner is that you can always count on the quality of the cup of coffee as being consistent (at least). I lived in Los Angeles for many years and would find myself in Starbucks when ‘jonesing’ for a cup of Joe. And it was satisfying, don't get me wrong. They have a very tasty Soy Latte' (no foam - foam gives you less soy). But I always felt guilty for paying into a huge corporation. Anyway, I flew out to New York City on a film gig and ended up going to a Starbucks with my friend Jorge'. When I ordered my ‘Grande' Soy Latte' with no foam’ his eyes about popped out of his head. He told me it must be a ‘L.A. thing’. I'll tell you this; that Starbucks was thousands of miles away from Los Angeles and that hot beverage tasted just like the one I would get on Melrose down the street from the Golden Apple Comic book shop. That is consistency. That is big business. That is an example of Starbucks being the Mc Donald’s of hot coffee.

(If I were a more savvy blogger I would include links to various coffee info websites here, giving lots of fun facts about roasting the bean and proper brewing techniques, but I’m too new at this and have an antiquated OS on my i-Mac.)

I haven't found that really great PLACE to have a cup of coffee yet (in Columbus, Ohio). I'm still comparing every coffee place to that ghost from my past; The Brazillia Cafe', but none have come close. No ‘Ma and Pa’ operations have really captured me as a regular, but I’m still looking. Some smaller corporations are on the right track, Caribou' Coffee, Scottie Mac Beans and Stauff’s being some of them (in Los Angeles there is a company called Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf that’s always exemplary). What’s good about Scottie Mac Beans and Stauff’s is that the coffee is roasted on site. You get the coffee right outta the oven. How cool is that? With the right beanroaster the effect on your coffee is extraordinary!

That, as they say, is a story for another blog.

Chip K.

Tapanga Canyon Boulder

Lauren Weinstein's blog had this photo of a huge boulder blocking the road (http://lauren.vortex.com/archive/2005_01.html) through the canyon; it inspired me to write this blog.

Topanga Canyon has always been a place of refuge for me away from the crazy energy of L.A., the traffic, the noise, the polluted air, to name a few. I would drive through there and stop off at one of my two favorite cafe's; The Mimosa Cafe' and The Waterlilly Cafe' (right by the postal track). Both have really good vibes conducive to writing and / or introspection. But most importantly - the coffee is the best - rivaled only by each other (I think the best soy latte' I ever had was at The Mimosa Cafe'). I could sit and write for hours (half-hours when I was working as a courier for a major motion picture company).

In the canyon you may not find a lot of hippies anymore, but the people are just as friendly. Some have been there since the sixties, still living in shack like houses. Others have made their money more recently and have been able to make their dream homes there. But all are good-natured for they know the secret that few have discovered about Topanga Canyon. The secret I am about to share with you now; PEACEFULNESS. This place where, once there, you feel you are thousands of miles away from Los Angeles and all your troubles, yet it only takes minutes to get there from the Valley or West Los Angeles via the PCH.

When your day is going by so quickly that the hustle and bustle becomes the driving force through which you live and breath, when the traffic and the noise and the day to day living become as overwhelming as the editing on a Michael Bay film - Topanga Canyon is the place where you can say ‘time out’, and take a recess from that life. When I think of Topanga Canyon the first thing that comes to mind is PEACE.

I feel for these people in the canyon that are being destroyed right now. I can place where that boulder was. I’ve driven that route hundreds of times when I lived in West Los Angeles. I practically have the scenery memorized. I can tell Lauren Weinstein this: I believe it is the strip of road closest to the ocean side of the postal track, just before the straight part that runs right into the PCH.

I wish I could be there. When I look at that photo of the boulder, it not only blocks the access to the canyon, it seams to deny access to myself. I never saw the footage on the news where they blew it up with dynamite. I don't think I want to, now that I live in Ohio, I'am denied access to the canyon everyday.

One thing about the Topanga Canyon I miss after moving out of California is the peace of mind I got from my many visits. Someday I will move back there and call it my home.

Until then I will have to find a new Topanga Canyon.

-Chip