Pancake Day. One of Mr B’s favourite festivals. Though to be strictly honest, he loves any festival - pagan or otherwise - which involves food. I must be fair, here - life for Mr B is extremely restricted since illness
struck. He can hardly be blamed for seeking enjoyment through eating and drinking. Hence yesterday I was congratulating myself on a Job Well Done when he ate his way through not one, not two, but three of my pancakes. I consigned our plates to the dishwasher,
replaced the sugar bowl in the larder cupboard, found a place in the fridge for the extra lemon I had bought (just in case) and went to bed a Happy Bunny (yes, thank yes, I know that’s Easter - I have mixed up my. spring Festivals but please bear with
Cometh the morning, cometh the payback. Isn’t Pancake Day just the messiest of festivals?
The revelations started when I went to put on the trousers I wore yesterday - only to realise that they were spattered all over with batter. Clearly I had had quite a Batter Battle with my electric whisk the previous evening.
Ah, well, into the washing machine with them - out of sight, out of mind, I thought.
Bending down to open the door of the washing machine, I couldn’t help
noticing that the kitchen floor was adorned with generous sploshes of batter which had presumably escaped from the mixing bowl in the course of Pancake Preparation. Despite my efforts to wipe down the kitchen surface after cooking, it clearly hadn’t
occurred to me to check the floor. A cup of coffee was called for, to give me strength to tackle the floor. What’s this? The kettle, like the floor, like my trousers, bore all the evidence of Random Assault and Battery.
And so it went on. The cooker was a mess, as was the floor around it. I had obviously attempted to flip my pancakes just a little too early before the batter had cooked sufficiently. It was, not to
put too fine a point on it, a Flipping Disaster.
When my two brothers were at school, Pancake Day was, I’m told, the occasion for a school tradition, stretching
back way before my brothers’ day. The whole school assembled at the two ends of the hall, every boy dressed in his rugby kit. At a given signal, a giant pancake was tossed high into the air and a major scrum ensued as each boy endeavoured to grab a bit
I would really like to know if this is fact or fiction. My brothers (six and ten years older than I) took great pleasure in fooling their gullible
little sister with such stories of derring do. I would hate to find out that it was a massive porky (pancake) pie, after all these years of envying my brothers’ part in such a truly exciting adventure.
When my Foursome were littl’uns, I cooked them pancakes almost every Thursday for their tea. Mr B’s payday was Friday and by Thursday teatime there was no money left in the housekeeping kitty. But, hey, with flour,
eggs and milk to hand, pancakes were my standby meal. “I just remember pancakes were our Thursday treat!” the Eldest of the Darling Daughters told me, many years later.
This morning, having cleaned up the cooker, the floor, the kitchen surfaces, I started to wonder why these days we always have pancakes as our pudding, the second course of our evening meal. Would it not be so much more sensible to cook pancakes for
breakfast? Then I would have all day to clear up the aftermath and wouldn’t wake up the morning after the night before to a sticky mess.
I still have to
convince Mr B of the merits of this decision but, honestly, wouldn’t it be just SO much batter…