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.
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.
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.
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:
Three guesses what song I’m thinking of when I say “flour”.
[Hint: Say “flour” Southern-style]
[Hint: “Pack a small bag”]
Sigh.
[Hint]
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Rip open a stick of butter desperately. Pant for effect. Hear it sizzzzzzzle. Ooooooh. Fan me, someone.
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.
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.
Signed,
People for the Ethical Treatment of Pancakes
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi