I wrote an Ode to Pajamas once. I feel like I could write an Ode to Pancakes today because I had the most perfectly perfect pancakes at Blue Willow for breakfast.
They had blueberries and were a little bit crispy on the top but tender and falling apart once you pour syrup on them. And seriously gigantic. One isn’t enough but two is too many.
Perfect with bacon on the side with coffee and a good book. (I’m reading Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood and I LOVE it. I’m slightly ashamed (the name! so silly. The hype! It’s too much. Yes, I put parentheses inside parentheses. Don’t judge.) but I keep telling myself that a good book is a good book. I have some suspicions why it’s really speaking to me but I’ll save them for a later post. Because this is about breakfast. Again. I know! I have a problem…)
But here’s the thing that’s strange, I don’t love pancakes very often. How a breakfast fetish as severe as mine doesn’t extend to pancakes is a mystery. But it’s true. I’ll eat eggs every day. Even twice a day. And never get tired of them or run out of ways to fix them.
But pancakes? Meh. I think there are a lot of bad pancakes in the world. Lots of heavy, cakey, clunky, pasty, tough, tepid pancakes out there that have scarred me. Emotionally. Or that’s my excuse for my pancake reticence.
I think I’ve made pancakes 2-3 times in the last calendar year. I remember these beauties
Which I made using this incredible recipe, but I put the blueberries inside. Where they should be.
And there’s this recipe for oatmeal pancakes by Orangette that my sister made and I sometimes I dream about and my mouth waters. Delicious. 3 million calories apiece. But delicious.
But I can’t remember the last time I ordered pancakes in a restaurant. Until today. And I’m so glad I did.
Here’s another look.
I spent a long time with them and a lot of coffee and the crazy Ya-Yas and I have to say, I couldn’t have improved upon the morning.
Sometimes, it’s all about pancakes.