Serving Up a Snowpocalypse

About a week ago, a powdered-sugar monstrosity came into my life.  Marketed as a Dutch-style pancake, this cavernous world of breakfast left me feeling like I had discovered some sacred (edible) scroll...


It was crunchy on the edges, but tender and gooey on the inside.  It lovingly held the strawberries and bananas as they fervently and shyly embraced. It left me moustached and merry.

That lasted for about 15 minutes.  Although it was good, it left me feeling slightly underwhelmed; the pancake was too thin to be substantial, and I was hungry for more.  Indeed, I was seduced by the siren's call of sugar and sweet promises...

And so today, on this work-free Monday, I decided to try my hand at some good ol' buttermilk pancakes. (Given the state of this wrathful winter, I steered clear of all powdered sugar.)  I do not know what it is about pancakes that make a morning so spectacular.  Perhaps it is the way the scent evokes last year's sleepy weekends with my roommate; we would slap lumpy pancakes onto the skillet, laughing through conversations that drew us slowly out of our confused dreams.  Though our pancakes would often turn out burned or shaped like Louisiana, making these together was an almost ritualistic holiday.  It promised some solidarity after a week spent flailing on the high seas of stress. 

Although I am no longer in that house, I find myself warmed by whiffs of these times.  I think I have finally perfected the art of fluffy pancakes.  I also think that one of our kitties, Clio, has pancake batter on her foot.  

 








Pancake cat!