I love pancakes. Light, fluffy, buttery pancakes. Buttermilk. Multi-grain. Stuffed with berries or bananas. Definitely chocolate chips. When I was pregnant with Gavin I ate them for every single meal during my first trimester. Sadly they were all delivered from the Starburst Diner.
You see, I cannot cook a pancake to save my life. Though I am not sure the scenario where my life would be in jeopardy and the only way to recover would be cooking a pancake. But if that were the case, I’d be toast.
They stick to the pan. They crumble. Forget if I try to add something to them. Battered covered raspberries are not delicious.
This weekend I was a mom on a mission. Armed with a few new pointers and a refrigerator full of goodies, I was going to make some damn pancakes!
“A griddle will make all the difference,” I was told by a friend late on Friday. My first thought, “where the hell am I going to get a griddle for Saturday morning pancakes?” Thanks Ian, for reminding me that we in fact already had a griddle. A fancy one purchased for our wedding. Seven years ago.
Saturday morning, bright and early. I was pumped!
The gang was excited too.
Warning: the following images are graphic.
So I turned the flame down to something I would call ‘low’.
Ok, so they weren’t from scratch. Or very pretty. And they weren’t going to get me added to the Top 10 Places to Eat Pancakes. But they got a reaction that made my heart sing. I wasn’t able to capture it with my camera but it looked a lot like this: