Father:
My love affair with pancakes goes way back to my childhood. Every March a
postcard would arrive with birthday greetings from Uncle John's Pancake
House on Union Road. Since my three sisters each received their
greetings shortly afterward, my parents had a free pancake dinner for
four of their five children. Uncle John's had exotic syrups such as
apricot and boysenberry. After the nirvana of such delights, I pondered
what else the wide world may offer me.
My paternal grandmother was the
queen of all pancake makers. To this day none of us have ever had
anything like her "apple cakes." These were a thick pancake layered with
apples and cinnamon, and every delicious, albeit unhealthy,
ingredient was doled out in pinches to her taste. Since this time, I have
been tinkering with my own pancake experiments, usually with wonderful
success. When I became a daddy, it was only natural that the children
be taught to indulge. Hot off the griddle they would happily gobble down my latest creation.
And so went happy life, until
the children inconsiderately grew up and established their own
residences. Hence began the Friday morning summer ritual of breakfast
with my neighbor Jim. He is a retired teacher with grandchildren so he
takes every opportunity to get out of the house. This has greatly
expanded my repertoire of area breakfast places. Each griddle adds a
unique nuance of flavor, I have discovered. I have also learned that
pancakes are not merely syrup sponges. It would be an absolute shame
not to share these and other lessons with the world, but I am starting
with my like-minded. more–talented-than-I daughter. We have dabbled in
ice cream and pizza, but this is serious… thus I continue the quest to
find a more perfect pancake.
Daughter:
I have struggled with pancakes. Like many women, I've spent an excessive amount of time and energy worrying about the food I eat. I've worried about how much was appropriate, not just for achieving that ever-elusive goal physique, but so I don't look like a piglet to my dining companions. Or a bird, or any other animal for that matter. I worried about the evils of sugar, wheat, butter, and thus, I worried about pancakes. Sweet, wonderful, unassuming pancakes. What did they ever do except make me happy? I joyfully ate them for dinner as a child and savored the sweet-potato pancakes of my favorite diner in college. Whatever happened between then and now is just wasted pancake-eating time.
So, last fall as I was training for a half-marathon, I finally embraced my love for pancakes. I stopped settling for "just a bite" when I really wanted a stack. I still eat egg-white omelets, love yogurt-granola bowls, and adore oatmeal. However, I no longer choose them over some gorgeous banana pancakes if that's what I'm craving after a few miles on the pavement. But I'm picky. My perfect pancake is dense, but not heavy. It's slightly sweet and able to soak up a gallon or so of maple syrup, though bites should be enjoyable without any topping at all.
The realization that pancakes could really be part of my life was, I'm sure, a relief to my breakfast-loving father. And so, we decided to have some together.
