Three perfect pancakes

A study in stacks

I’m happy to report that this issue of Forage is about pancakes—the real deal, not a metaphor. In fact: look, here they are!

Three perfect pancakes

But first.

A little backstory. I spent the first few weeks of the pandemic solo, furniture-less, and picnicking on my rug as a makeshift dining ‘area’. Even in these moments of isolated eating, it was important for me not to lose my unwavering insistence on making food that is inspiring, never purely functional.

I picnicked for breakfast, eating my never-boring bowl of cereal, dressed with easy-peasy blueberries, adorned with fancy soaked almonds, and sprinkled with basic-girl chia seeds. 

I picnicked for dinner, eating my bowls of pasta, more often than not drenched in a lemon, butter, wine, and olive oil sauce and almost too much cracked black pepper (you really don’t need any other ingredients to live a full life). This one became my solace and my pride, perfected over hours of tasting, tweaking, and as always, scientific study. (More on that in a future issue, so stick around.)

Every meal was a picnic, carefully composed, more carefully eaten, and usually in the company of Netflix; the TV at the time being the only companion to the rug in the living room.

Then one May morning, I became the proud owner of a kitchen island, a newly working oven, and before I knew it, it was summer.

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Now before we get to the pancakes, which is obviously why you’re here, there are a few things you need to know about me:

1. Food is my love language.

2. I believe that going out for breakfast is overrated. Permission granted to unfriend and unfollow me if I have offended you irrevocably but I stand by this: I believe that the best breakfast I can ever have is the one I make in my kitchen.

3. I have always had a spiritual need to be inspired by what I eat. The idea of ‘food as a fuel’, a more primal approach one could argue, has always made me feel a little bit sorry for anyone who subscribes to that philosophy.

Drumroll please for my first gif!

Pomp and circumstance

A pancake breakfast has often sounded like one of two things to me:

The first is the kind you eat at “brunch”, usually in a restaurant or café, where more often than not it’s crowded, noisy, and cramped. It’s where your forgotten maple syrup takes hours (in pancake time) to begrudgingly appear, and where you’re charged for two eggs as if you were being served the whole dozen. It’s where you’re surrounded by people who are drunk, hungover, or with children in tow, or all of the above—none of which inspires a culinary experience worthy of a precious Saturday morning.

The second is the quintessential image of the nuclear family: the Sunday morning lull, matriarch doing the laundry, and patriarch, in a delightful departure from the everyday, apron-clad and in the kitchen making his “special pancakes”. Sometimes they come in shapes, sometimes they’re topped with chocolate syrup, but it doesn’t matter, because as far as his 2.2 kids are concerned, they are perfect. They happen to be so especially perfect by virtue of their origin, made by beloved dad, rather than because they are perfect themselves.

But don’t pancakes deserve more? Pop culture has, somehow and unfairly, branded pancakes a ‘special occasion meal’, and more detrimentally as far I’m concerned, a social one. A pancake breakfast, we are told, relies on others, requiring tradition and ritual. But why does it have to be that way?

Strawberry compote + afternoon sun = ❤️

Very specific cravings

One summer morning, the smell of fresh strawberries in my kitchen puts me in a trance, and I experience a craving that is very intense and very specific: fluffy, warm, and perfect pancakes topped with a fresh strawberry compote (fancy word for fresh jam) and plenty of maple syrup (I’ll never be interested in a lesser alternative to maple syrup.)

Not knowing where to begin in my pancake recipe forage, I consult the New York Times Food app. After a few minutes of poking around and skimming some recipes, I settle on Alison Roman’s (available here for NYT Food subscribers). Her no-fuss but simultaneously all-fuss attitude echoes my mood, and hers becomes my vision for perfect pancakes.

(Even within the confines of structured recipes, her writing enthralls me to no end.)

I read the recipe to make sure I’ve got everything I need. I don’t. I’m missing the crucial buttermilk, which is right there in the name of the recipe. It is also right there in the grocery store, something I am so grateful to have access to since moving to Europe.

When I’m back from the store, where I miraculously only pick up the buttermilk, my laser focus returns to the recipe. At this point, I realise it feeds four hungry souls (cementing further the notion that pancakes are intended for groups!)

Living on my own, I’m no stranger to halving and quartering recipes, so I’m surprised to find myself in a mathematical conundrum. The recipe calls for 2 eggs, so divided by 4, that’s 0.5 egg. I consider abandoning Alison, but then think how lame a pancake pity-party would be, and I soldier ahead.

(For the record, I whisk one egg and weigh out half of it through a process that is more complicated than necessary.)

A note here about eating in lockdown: it can be very tempting to go above and beyond to “support local businesses” (and some global tech ones) and order in at every opportunity, but for me, that was never as compelling a choice as cooking. I reserved ordering in for the truly special: a crispy Peking duck, for example.

Being at home for me means time to cook and create, and now here I was, presented with more of it than I’ve ever had. This vaguely reminds me of an astute (and arguably controversial, I know) quote I once read somewhere: “Sometimes I just wish I could go to prison for a year or two. I could finally catch up on my reading, sleep more, and get into shape!”

Yes yes yes, I can appreciate how wildly privileged this musing is, but the core of its sentiment is no less true; that we all wish we could ignore away our responsibilities and all our time would be ours, and if you say it isn’t so, what is your secret? And can you share it with me?

The most recent stack I made, but it won’t be the last of 2020!

With ample time to spend in the kitchen, now commute-less and without any social life to speak of, the world is my oyster, or today, my mixing bowl.

I go into my familiar scientist mode, meticulously weighing the flour and carefully questioning how to best measure out 0.75 tablespoons of butter while ignoring the glaring neurosis that I know is on full display. (In my defense, American recipes are a minefield when it comes to measurements.)

I add the ingredients one by one, just as instructed, watching and rewatching Alison’s video to make sure I’m doing it right. In a matter of seconds, the batter comes together, my mise-en-place obsession and clean-as-I-go philosophy making it actually fun. I am now ready for the drama of frying, praying, and flipping.

(A little recipe modification note here: the comments I sifted through under Alison’s recipe mention letting the batter ‘rest’ to get the pancakes fluffier, but whether you do this or not, they are delicious. If you have some time to kill, by all means, give the batter a little time in the fridge, otherwise, just get to it.)

The first pancake I flip is surprisingly perfect, especially as custom mandates it should be a throwaway. However, with just enough batter for three, every pancake must rise to the occasion and to perfection.

I flip the second and soon the third is done—a neat stack awaits, the strawberry compote singing as it waits patiently to join the stack and be doused by almost too much maple syrup (no such thing).

Admiringly I plate the final touches, set the table for one, and take as many pictures as I can before the pancakes begin to cool. Sitting down before them, I take a sip of my coffee, hand-ground, and freshly-brewed, and I feel good.

In that first perfect first bite, I am reminded again that food is my love language—especially when I am the one on the receiving end.

All mine, in all their perfection! 🥞

Reading list, etc.

• Perfect Buttermilk Pancakes recipe. Get it here.

• Alison Roman: A Newsletter. Sign up here.

• What is a love language? Find yours here.

• The perfect kitchen island from IKEA. Buy one here.

• New York Times Food app for iPhone / for Android