And then there are the pancake people.
Who you cannot confuse with the crepe people.
Not sure where I’m going with this? A little history: I had my first pancake at a fundraising breakfast at the Catholic church in Callicoon. This isn’t to say that my family skipped flat breakfast foods in favor of say cereal or eggs.
We had pancakes, but it wasn’t until I sat down to break bread with dozens of other people that I discovered I wasn’t eating “real” pancakes.
Up to this point, I’d eaten only crepes, thinner, eggier, and to me the ultimate breakfast dish (save for a pile of challah French toast . . . but I’m getting ahead of myself).
These “real” pancakes were a mystery to me. How did one roll them up to cut? How did one pick them up, cream cheese and strawberries inside, and eat with your hands? What was this “buckwheat?”
It would be years until I could accept this version – however inferior – as having a place on a breakfast table.
Letting it into my home is another matter.
Take my husband’s attempt perhaps a year ago to make breakfast for dinner, a box of Bisquick pulled out, a griddle warmed up, and my vow to grin and bear it. I ate one before politely demurring. It would be another year before he suggested breakfast for dinner, and this time I was ready. No, no Bisquick; I can make them.
They were light. Eggy. Perfect for rolling and cutting, delicious even without a lemon to squeeze over them (along with sugar my preferred means of munching on crepes).
He ate one. Then he politely demurred.
Closing in on 10 years of marriage, and I’m just now learning he is, without a doubt, a pancake person. Crepes aren’t fluffy, he says, they’re too eggy.
Pancakes aren’t light enough, I say. And where are the eggs? And so how does this Northerner stay married to this Southerner, this crepe woman to this pancake man?
Thank heavens for challah.
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