The Pancake Princess
After my time served in various restaurants on brunch duty, pancakes became the enemy. On a weekend morning, I’d rather be doing almost anything else. I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’ve never really understood the appeal. Pancakes are never *that* good. They’re generally a soggy, bready vehicle for syrup - and I’m not a big fan of syrup, either. The only pancakes I have truly loved that I can remember are the Swedish pancakes my mom used to make sometimes, raspberry jam spooned on top with dainty of powdered sugar.
I made them a few times for my daughter when she was younger and she was never really that into them, either, but recently she’s started asking for them again. I assume, like many children, she’s really after the syrup. And while I hate to load her up with sugar so early in the day, after all this time apart, I feel like it’s the least I can do.
I agree to make the pancakes with a caveat - she has to help. She asks if I have everything we need and I explain that pancakes are made with really simple things like flour, milk, sugar, eggs - all things we keep on hand. Lots of foods are made with these things, in various combinations and amounts, using different methods and techniques.
I can make pancakes in my sleep with one hand tied behind my back. I don’t use a recipe - I think in ratios and adjust as needed. For two large pancakes and a tester, I have her sift a cup of flour and a teaspoon of baking powder together. It’s relatively painless and we get in a good lesson about proper flour measurement strategy. She helps me crack an egg, melt some butter, pinch some salt and splash some vanilla. I handle the sugar because she can’t be trusted with it. Before I know it, we’re tasting and critiquing our tiny tester, and she says, “How do you know all of this?”
So we talk about the time before she was born, when mommy worked in restaurants, and I tell her about the early weekend mornings where I would drag myself to the kitchen and make pancakes all day. Some places, I did the measuring, some places, I did the actual cooking, and at one place, I did everything.
“And you know what they called me?”
“What?”
“The Pancake Queen.”
She gasps. “Oh my goodness. That means… that makes me… The Pancake Princess!” She looks awed.
“Hey, I guess that’s right. We better get lots of practice so you can live up to that title!”
We talk about how the pan needs to be the perfect heat, it needs to cook the egg and evaporate the liquid out without burning the sugar. We listen to the sizzle as the batter hits the pan, watch the bubbles form, how they pop for a bit and eventually they stay in their place when the batter has cooked enough to flip. We watch the steam rise and after we turn them, I teach her my trick for knowing when it’s cooked through and ready to plate. For the second cake, I let her walk me through it. She tells me when it’s time to flip and how she knows when it’s cooked through. I’m impressed, she’s got it down already. We now have two perfect pancakes.
She’s annoyed that I do the syrup myself, but again - she can’t be trusted with it. I cut two perfect pancakes into bite size pieces on her favorite plate. I try a piece myself - they’re not bad! They’re just not for me. She’s worried that I’m not eating any and I explain that I’m just not a fan of pancakes.
“I’m pancaked out.”
“But you’re The Pancake Queen!”
“I know. Hm. How do I explain this? Sometimes we’re really good at things we love. Sometimes we’re really good at things we don’t like that much.”
“But other people love them!”
“Yes. Other people love them, like you! And I love that I get to give you something you love.”
I sit and watch her eat the pancakes, bite by bite, smiling and grunting and loving every moment. And so do I.
