There wasn’t a lot of cooking going on in my house growing up. My Mom offered a very limited menu of chicken, hamburgers, chicken, meatloaf, chicken, pork chops, chicken and takeout. Breakfast was almost always cereal, with French Toast a favorite for holidays, and Matzoh Brie (basically French Toast made with matzoh instead of bread) for birthdays. I think I recall her making pancakes once, and that was from a box mix. My mother never cooked from scratch if there was a pre-packaged alternative. This was the late sixties and early seventies, so the choices did not abound as they do today.
Somehow my sister emerged from this culinary wasteland and found her way to becoming an excellent cook. She offers her family a varied and eclectic menu, from the most simple dishes to gourmet delights. This while working full time and raising two kids and running her household. I remain puzzled as to how she broke the mold, while I flounder having kept my mother’s tradition going.
Yes, I am not a confident, skilled cook. True that I am hampered by familial finickiness, but it’s also because I just don’t branch out and try new recipes often. So while my prowess at making banana bread and cool cakes is well known in my family, and I make a mean corn casserole and pineapple souffle, each new recipe I try is stressful.
And that’s just silly.
So, this morning Husband woke up and said he wanted pancakes for breakfast and asked me to make them. Just last week I had seen a recipe for supposedly wonderful pancakes, so I gave it a shot.
They’re pretty ugly. I think there were only two nicely round, evenly browned pancakes. But they were warm and fluffy and tasted perfectly scrumptious.
Restaurant pancakes may be pretty and perfect, but you can’t eat at a restaurant in your underwear. And instead of thanking a waitress while spending $30 on breakfast, I got a thank you kiss from Husband, and a sticky hug from Son, and spent about a dollar.
I think I’ll make chocolate chip pancakes next time…