Pancakes, Flapjacks, Hotcakes ..

I have had four major, life-altering experiences with pancakes.

I’m serious.

Like most aspects of my culinary perspective, pancakes have gone through a stunning evolution since my first important flapjack run-in. These four stories are worth a look, so grab some syrup and cuddle in with me.

One
As part of my ritual birthday celebration when I was younger, my mother would take me out to breakfast before dropping me off at school (Though I think that skipping the bus ride was treat enough ..) Usually, we’d stop at Dunkin Donuts, and she’d sip on a flavored coffee while I devoured some sort of muffin.

One year, though, my birthday fell on a Saturday. I was young – most likely in elementary school. Time is a little fuzzy for me here. At any rate, a Saturday birthday meant a Friday slumber party. My girlfriends and I giggled and danced late into the night, then upon waking, my father gathered us up and took us to the restaurant I’d begged for. In my mind, this restaurant was the epitome of fun and the pinnacle of great food. “We never get to eeeeat there,” I whined, and he relented.

And so we went to McDonalds.

The thought of entering a McDonalds now makes me want to wrap myself in Lysol-soaked washcloths and swallow an entire bottle of Tums, but to be fair, at age 7, I had never dined at the James Beard House.

I ordered pancakes, or, as I remember they were called, hotcakes. I don’t remember how they tasted, but I can make a pretty good wager that they were awful. A quick image search online reveals McDonalds pancakes to be pale, flat, and floppy-looking things that soak up sugary syrup like a sponge. If that’s breakfast, I’d rather go without.
Sitting at a stool as a child, swinging my feet, and laughing with my best friends, though, they were the most delicious breakfast I could ever ask for.

Two
A few years later, one weekend morning, my mother served us homemade pancakes. I ate them, went outside, ran around, caused trouble, came inside, ate lunch, read 86 Babysitters Club books, ate dinner, and then got sick. I probably had what soccer moms everywhere describe as a “stomach bug,” but for some reason, I was certain it was those damned pancakes that made me sick.

As I lay on my couch, a thermometer in my mouth and a bucket at my side, I stared at the folds in my mother’s beige curtains. I counted them over and over again, swearing that they looked like stacked flapjacks.

“I’m pretty sure it’s just a bug,” my mother assured me, her hand on my forehead.

“Nnnooo, it was the fucking pancakes!” I sobbed.

(Just kidding; I didn’t really say that. I was ten years old. I’m sure I thought it, though).

Despite my mother’s insistence, I was convinced that the breakfast made me ill, and I didn’t eat them again, until …

Three
For my first semester of college, I attended a woman’s school in Virginia. It was a lovely place, lush and green, filled with beautiful brick walkways and flowering trees. I have very fond memories of it, so long as I’m not remembering the daily bouts of bulimia that I kept unsuccessfully trying to repress.

There was only one dining hall on campus, which, in addition to being open for a few hours at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, opened itself late at night during finals week. With each night came a different food “theme,” – I distinctly remember stumbling in one evening, drunk off Smirnoff, for nachos.

As it happened, one night was devoted entirely to pancakes. I still felt uneasy around pancakes, but, to be honest, as a bulimic, I didn’t see them so much as “pancakes” as “free food.“

I slipped into the dining hall, wearing a baseball cap (as though it’d disguise me) piled my plate high with pancakes, wolfed them down alone at a corner table, and repeated the process three times. I then slipped back out, ran to a bathroom, and threw up everything I’d eaten.

This wasn’t a particularly exciting event for me; it happened at least twice daily during my time there. What makes it stand out in my mind, however, is the fact that I eschewed my hatred for pancakes in order to fill myself.

Unfortunately, the whole experience left me even more averse to the popular breakfast food, and I didn’t touch them for years.

Four
Lately, I’ve been having a lot of fun re-introducing myself to foods that I used to avoid for various reasons (uh … meat?). I’m also attempting to try foods that I used to associate with eating disordered behavior and knock them on their pompous bums. Ice cream, for example, has morphed from a frightening temptation to a favorite summertime treat. (I like mine with lots of shaved chocolate, coconut, and salted almonds).

I figured it was time to have a serious talk with pancakes as well.

I sat down, turned on my computer, and consulted someone who has a healthy, intimate relationship with food (as well as a charming accent): Jamie Oliver. His recipe for “American Pancakes” caught my attention because it described the outcome as “wonderfully fluffy and thick.” If I was going to eat pancakes, I wanted them to be fat as pillows, and filled with berries. None of that thin, limp McDonalds silliness.

I printed his recipe, brewed some coffee, and warmed a fry pan.

After making the pancakes (which were, to be quite frank, beautiful), I topped them with real maple syrup and creme fraiche, then plopped a few berries on top. The heat from the pancakes melted the creme fraiche slightly, and it oozed down the stack, pooling among the black raspberries.

I sat down with the morning paper and took a small bite. I sipped and nibbled, reading and enjoying the stream of morning sunlight. When I reached the halfway point – that is, my plate was half empty – I arched my back in a stretch and realized that I was full.

I covered the plate and set it in the fridge. “Pancakes, you’re all right,” I nodded my approval as I began to scrub the dishes.

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