The Girl with One Pancake

There's a cardinal rule when you're living abroad. Don't try and find those things for which you're homesick; you know, fresh-squeezed lemonade, your favorite shampoo, a brand of coffee you've been using for years. Just relish the thought that soon you will be back at home with life's familiar goings-on. Basically, to put another spin on it, travelling is a time to try out new things!

But I was craving pancakes. Honestly, I think pancakes may be my favorite food. Ever since my Grandma Opal made them for me when I would spend the weekends at my grandparent's farm, I've adored pancakes. Grandma made them perfectly. I think she probably greased the pan with just a light layer of butter and then left the pancake on the griddle (no peeking!) for just long enough until it was a rich shade of sienna before she flipped it over. I remember sitting in the yellow vinyl chairs turning myself towards the kitchen so I could see her standing over the stove. Grandpa and I would smile in anticipation. Then comes the butter. You have to make sure that the little pad of butter is evenly divided over the top pancake, but that there's enough left to hide under the top one and cover the one underneath. Then comes the syrup. As many of you know, I will go through liters of this stuff given the chance. No really. I make sure that syrup has hit every centimeter of the pancake and then keep pouring until the edges of the plate almost drip with the stuff. Now K. and I make banana pancakes on the weekends, and sometimes we'll even have them for dinner along with a few eggs.

Ahem. So obviously, pancakes are very important to me. Honestly, I don't miss that much because I like trying new things, but I have been craving pancakes for a few weeks. When I saw that the Jacobite Cafe's special was 'American style' pancakes, I dragged Kevin into the cafe for my lunch. I should have known there'd be a problem when the waitress sheepishly came up to us after 10 minutes and told me that they couldn't find any self-rising flour for the batter. "Just put in some baking powder," clever K. replies, and off our happy waitress goes to finish making my flap jacks. About 15 minutes later she comes back with two plates in her hand: K's panini and my.....

pancake. After all that trouble, I received a single pancake, about 4 inches in diameter. Even though I found the experience sadly funny, I was ready to dig in until I smelled the telltale 'burnt pancake' smell that I know so well. I flipped my pancake over and was greeted to a smoking, black door-way into my own personal hell. I had one pancake, and it was burnt! I slathered it in butter and syrup, tasted it, and the consistency almost threw me. It was cakey, spongey, and not at all the consistency of anything I wanted to eat. Boo.

I made the same mistake the next day when I again ordered pancakes. This time, there were three smallish pancakes on my plate--nicely cooked, but still having a strange consistency. No more pancakes for me, my friends. But you can all bet that my first morning back in Los Angeles, that K. will be firing up the griddle!