Flipping Delicious

Yesterday was Shrove Tuesday.  Although I do not go in for silly things such as Lent, I do enjoy a good Pancake Day.  What better excuse to use up eggs, milk and sugar?

This is, of course, despite the fact that I regularly partake in pancakes during the year.  Only, on Shrove Tuesday, it's law.

He takes his pancakes very seriously.

I normally make the traditional crêpe-style pancakes, or drop scones, during the year.  Alasdair even gave us a novelty waffle-maker in the shape of a well-known cartoon mouse, and some Sundays Henry and I have an awful lot of fun with our sadistic tendencies towards mice.  However, on Pancake Day, I go the full hog and turn North American on Henry's bottom and get creative.

Last year, I whipped the egg whites first before folding them into the batter.  I didn't really notice a difference except for sudden-onset wrist arthritis that lasted a week (I only own a balloon whisk).  Neither did Henry like my holding the bowl over his head upside down to check for stiff peaks.

This year, I received a gift from darling Sylvie, who is now in Canada, of organic maple syrup.  Topping number one was sorted.  Time to get serious.

For topping number two. I found an ancient lemon in the fridge.  Luckily, after getting it open with the double-bitted wood axe, it still had a bit of juice inside.

Are you sure that is a lemon?

Toppings ready – now for the pancakes.

Dogged and determined, I went into our Utility Larder (dodging laundry powder perched precariously atop the rice pops) and found I didn't have any caster sugar.  But I am nothing if not creative with ingredients, so I picked up some leftover sad-looking soft brown sugar and the large box of icing sugar (which never seems to come in a small box – how many cakes do they think I will be icing?).  Sugar measured.

Flour, flour, flour.  I always have flour, but never the type I need.  Luckily, today was the exception that proved the rule.  I might not have been able to make shortbread or a Victoria sponge, but I did have plenty of plain flour, if I mixed white and wholemeal up a bit.  Not a problem.  Sugar and flour were now sitting pretty in a mixing bowl.

Baking powder next.  Finally found it at the back of the larder, behind the bicarbonate of soda and the cream of tartar.  I dread opening that last one – I can't remember the last time I used that.  What, pray, does it even go in?  But to make a long story short, baking powder was added to the bowl of flour and sugar.

What else?  Oh yes, the butter, milk and eggs.  Pulling on my Hunter wellies, I marched off into our fields.

The eggs were easy.  I just lifted up our fattest hen and found two beautiful eggs.  I then headed to the cow shed.  One quick squeeze of our prize cow's teat and the job was done.  Butter, on the other hand, was going to be a bit trickier.  I filled a jam jar with the product of another teat squeeze of fresh milk and made Henry hold it whilst I drove to the nearest village and back on our beloved antique tractor.

Ah, butter.  Just like dear great, great grandpapa used to make.

What with the winter potholes and ill-advised speed bumps adding to Henry's tremors after missing his afternoon gin, the milk had churned into a beautiful creamy butter.

Getting back to the kitchen, I found that the eggs had broken.  Damn.  Off I went to replace with the second best two eggs.

I hunted in the fridge and the larder.  I needed the optional extras.

Ah-ha!  I didn't remember buying them, but I found two packs of cherries and a small bag of chia seeds.  Well, blow me down!  Isn't chopping cherries really fiddly when they still have the stones in?

Into the fridge the batter went.  By this time I was covered in icing sugar and had fingertips red with cherry juice.  I find that some of the best food is the messiest.

Yes, it was this bad.

Whilst waiting, Henry and I had our first course of gin to warm the stomach up for the pancakes.

Time up and full of gin, I let Patches and Fang lead me to the kitchen.  I stared at a cast iron casserole pot, wondering why it wasn't a frying pan, for some time before I found the actual frying pan.

Now the fun bit.  I actually found I had two frying pans, and I'm rather good at tossing pancakes in either hand, but this year I wanted to try it with both hands at once.

Pans hot and well oiled, I dropped a ladle of batter into each one and waited for the bubbles to rise.  Patches, Fang and Henry were salivating at my heels, waiting almost patiently for the traditionally crap first pancake.

They're still waiting.

For you see, when I tossed the two pancakes, I was a bit enthusiastic and they're still stuck to the kitchen ceiling.

Undeterred, I tried again with the next two.  Irish wolfhounds, it turns out, are much quicker than gin-soaked baronets, and Henry lost out when the pancakes hit the floor.

At this point Henry started whining, so I used a fish slice for the remaining batter.  We both got a very nice pile of pancakes, dripping in maple syrup and lemon juice.  Patches and Fang continue to wait under the ones on the ceiling, tails wagging patiently.

God bless Pancake Day.