Archive | August, 2013

Happy Hausfrau Series: Pancakes From Scratch

29 Aug

Greetings from the home of the happy hausfrau! Don those aprons and follow me into the kitchen, chop chop.

Those of you who remember my post about meeting Ceej in Paris know that it ended with the certainty that we would see each other in another country and another city someday. Because that’s our thing. He’s my people. That’s what we do. So it won’t come as a surprise when I mention that we recently added another continent to our list when he flew into San Francisco and waited the equivalent of the Triassic, Jurassic and Cretaceous eras for me to conquer rush hour traffic and screech into the airport.

Now he’s known me as the local cab-grabbing Bombay girl, and the Goa-in-the-monsoon party girl, and the I’m-in-London-life-is-perfect tourist girl, and the oh-look-Shakespeare’s-house-in-Stratford-upon-Avon girl, and the escargot-gobbling-soaking-in-all-things-French-from-His-Highness-the-Francophile girl, but this time, this time my friends, he was seeing me on home turf. And no one who enters the Happy Hausfrau’s kitchen gets out without a bellyful. So in his honor, I whipped up some super easy, seriously delish pancakes that I’ve made about a dozen times since. Now you can enjoy them too!

First, get your crew in a huddle. A VIP is about to be born.

Gather them all

Top row: Salt the city slicker; Flour the floozie; Sour Cream the sulker

Middle row: Baking Soda the blitzer; Vanilla the vivacious; Sugar the sexxxeh

Bottom row: Butter the badass; Eggs the what-else….eggstraordinary!

In a generous gesture of going the extra mile to show you what else you’ll need for Operation I’m-in-Heaven, I took this picture.

tools of fools

And forgot to add  the 17 and a half measuring spoons you’ll need. Just mentally throw those in, won’t you?

Imagine there’s a picture

It’s easy if you try

Runnin’ outa them spoons

Sure makes OJ cryyyy…..

Ignore me. It’s a disease. Just buy the Boy a drink sometime, if you ever see him lurking in a bar, shadows under his eyes from all the trilling in our stage home stage home.

Where was I? Oh yes, slaving over pancakes, while you folk croon and be a waste-a-time! Some people.

cream it

Scoop dollops of the sour cream into a measuring container and make sure you have one (1) cup.  Isn’t it onederful that ghastly spelling isn’t among the many diseases I inflict upon the world?


Dump it in a big mixing bowl. Who else loves white on white? *raises hand* Go look at this and levitate.

Next, add seven (7) tablespoons of flour. Like thees:

come flour with me

Three guesses what song I’m thinking of when I say “flour”.

[Hint: Say “flour” Southern-style]

[Hint: “Pack a small bag”]



Time to end that white perfection with a dash of brown. Sugar! 2 tablespoons! And yes, if you have a rare form of OCD that compels you to continue the white-on-white-on-white pattern, feel free to use white sugar. We’re just terribly healthy in this home, you see. Sour cream pancakes flipped in butter absolutely must be made in organic, golden-brown demerara.

soda so good

Gently take one teaspoon of pure artisanal baking soda. Breathe a prayer into its aura. Tinkle a silver bell at it. Delicately sprinkle on the mound, taking care not to disturb its electric violet halo. Feel the hush descend on you as the mound….awaits….more……


More white! This recipe is getting holier than the Pope! You think he’d like my pancakes? I could’ve offered eggs benedict to the last one. Pity.

Oh, and in case you are actually following this recipe (who does that?) this is salt. A full half (1/2) teaspoon of it.


Now to change things up a bit. Crack two (2) eggs into a separate bowl. Don’t you deeply appreciate how I’m including the number next to the number name? Like a proper grown-up. It’s fun to pretend.


Wield the whisk. In our house, she’s called Whiskey. Which is all terribly confusing when the Boy’s brother visits, because he means the other kind and doesn’t take well to being presented with our wiry beauty in a glass tumbler.

churn, churn, churn

Turn your attention to the Bowl You Left Behind. Give all the ingredients a stir. Don’t kill yourself, though. Less is more. Said the President of the Lazyass Cooking Crowd.


Time for the two families to meet and Culture Shock to reverberate. Merge. Meld. Combine. The Montagues and Capulets enter an alternate reality even as the Italians want their story back from the clutches of an apron-clad airhead.

more whiskey

Add a half (1/2) teaspoon of vanilla extract and put Whiskey to work again. Don’t bother with your high-powered electric whisks for this effort. We don’t need nothin’ terribly smooth and creamy.

churn, churn, churn part 2

If it looks as smooth as this or George Clooney in Intolerable Cruelty (yes really, those are your options), you’re good. Move on to ze next step. Or l’étape suivante, as Google educates me.

(Ceej! Is that correct?)


Time to get hawt. Or haute. Let griddle-bottom make contact with stovetop and Turn. It. On.

utterly butterly

Rip open a stick of butter desperately. Pant for effect. Hear it sizzzzzzzle. Ooooooh. Fan me, someone.

caking it on

Quick, don’t let the butter burn, even if you’re all hot and bothered. Turn the stove down to medium heat and ladle the batter onto the griddle . Let batter and butter cook until small bubbles begin to appear on the uncooked surface. Then flip over.

the other side

Like so. And cut away all the oozy gooey stuff that somehow miraculously ended up in my mouth. This kitchen is a spooked place, I tell ya. Cook this side for approximately the same time as you cooked the other. Which should be anywhere between 2 to 4 minutes, depending on how madly attractive your griddle is.


Once done, remove the pancake to a plate and repeat the operation with the remaining batter. Or, if you’re greedy like a certain somebody I know, place a small square of butter atop your New Religion, drizzle maple syrup all over, and convert.


Dig in. Take one heavenly bite and watch your fork and mouth form the soul connection of a lifetime. You can burp your thank you later.

No buddies were harmed in the making of this divinity.


People for the Ethical Treatment of Pancakes

It Doesn’t Quite Click

16 Aug

Perhaps there is some truth, after all, to the wisdom of non-camera-savvy people. When they stare into a foreign object and let it capture the physical essence of who they are, perhaps they know better than us to be in the moment, be real, and not put on an act of pretending to be happy. Maybe they want to be remembered for their true feelings that day, if it means staring grimly, soberly, and not splitting their faces into socialized smiles to deceive an audience into believing their lives couldn’t possibly hold more joy. Maybe there is some truth to their presentation. In a way that will never be in ours. Unless, of course, we go through our days posing and toasting, all flung arms and side profiles, best face forward, like we never scrounge in pyjamas or have a bad mane month.

And maybe there is wisdom in not holding on to those images of ourselves, seconds of moments past, when we are ever-changing, eternal. The you that was doesn’t exist anymore. And yet we chase it down, grapple it to the ground, and pin that wave upon the sand, content with mere froth.

No judgment here, just an observation. Think about it. And share?