When I first started this blog, I almost entitled it "Burnt Pancakes" rather than "Little Footy Pajamas".
I was very excited about the prospect of blogging publicly again, this time a bit wiser with a little less private details about my life, but I wanted the title of the blog to properly represent my life currently as well. I very distinctly remember sitting down at the computer at the kitchen table, excited and giddy, racking my brain for blog title ideas.
And then I smelled it.
The smell of a burnt pancake on the stove, the scent of it wafting into my nostrils. I jumped up and found what used to resemble a pancake now resembled a piece of coal in my pan, and I lamely dumped it into the sink to try again. For some reason, pancakes have been a bit of an El Guapo for me in the breakfast realm. I mean, really. How HARD can it be to make a pancake. SERIOUSLY. Of course, at that moment, a cutie-pie in footy pajamas came crawling into the kitchen, and the cuteness was irresistible.
Hence, the current blog name was born.
BUT, I never gave up on my efforts to create the perfect pancake. And, I'm proud to say, that after a few months of trial and error, I've finally found a formula that ma familia loves. While I prefer whole wheat pancake mix, let's face it: Some mornings are just kind of "Just Add Water" mornings. So, I take my box of Hungry Jack, dump in a cup of mix, dump in 3/4 cups of water, and then I add a little shakey-shake of brown sugar and a little bigger shakey-shake of wheat germ. After a good whisking, I dump it into an already-heated, already-sprayed-with-cooking-spray skillet and let them cook at medium-high heat. And, voila! Pancakes ready for the eating.
Well, ready for Cub eating, anyway. Mama likes just a biiiiiiiiit more sweet, so I take my maple syrup and add a good dollop on top of my stack. Mmmm.
I've mentioned on previous blogs that I am a maple syrup snob. I can't help it.
It's my family's fault, really. My Mom grew up in Vermont, so, naturally, all she consumed was the real thing. None of the fake stuff. And my Dad, well, he grew up in the hills of Pennsylvania where they tapped their own trees. Have I told you about this? My Grandma tapped her own trees well into her silver years. Her name was Virginia and she was a member of a very conservative sect of the Society of Friends, a group known as modern-day Quakers. I mention that only because their lives are traditionally known as quiet ones, and hers was no exception. Her life was quiet and hard-working, and every year she would trudge around in the snow drifts, tapping the maple trees around her house. And every year, when I was a kid in California, we would receive boxes of her bottled syrup and packages of her homemade maple cream in the mail. While I never had the pleasure of tapping trees with her, I can imagine her all bundled up, moving from tree to tree while the snow fell quietly around her. She must have loved the serenity of it all, you know?
This is making me really miss Grandma.
Wait, what were we talking about? Oh right, syrup.
Obviously, I have an emotional attachment to it. Sorry!
Now that Grandma is in heaven, my Mom makes it a point to purchase maple syrup on her visits to Vermont and she gives me a mason jar full of syrup when she comes home. Mmmm. Love it. Hence, the snobbery!
How about you? What is your favorite way to make pancakes?