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.
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.
posted by cK @ 7:43 AM
1 Comments:
At 6:53 PM,
Anonymous said…
Aw Chip, you're just a big ol' sentimental romantic. Nice pancake story, though. We recently bought one of those Shake n' Pour pancake mixes -- you add some tap water right into the container the mix comes in, and then shake it and pour it in the skillet. Strange. It was delicious -- and then about 20 minutes later we were crashing from an overdose of the sugar blues. But we blame it on the cheap "maple flavored" syrup. No love there, my friend. We'll have to get the love from your blog stories.
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