The precious, ceramic bowl used to be lent to the nosy
neighbour, time and time again. Would it be back in time? Making an appearance sitting proudly on the
formica counter. What did she use it for? I used to wonder, and anyway, why
did she not buy her own? This was
‘OUR’ bowl with its creamy beige ridges and off white inside, was filled with
silky soft flour that had just drifted through the sieve. The eggs, cracked
open and dropped into the ready-made well and mixed with the ice cold milk,
till not a lump could be spied. It was Tuesday, not any Tuesday, but the best
Tuesday of the year.
Dad was not home
from work at his usual prompt time of 4.30pm and the table dressed for tea
at five. We could let our hair down and enjoy Pancake Day: informal, fun,
laced with anticipation. The day before Ash Wednesday a grim day, walking
around with ash on your forehead all day and dread the thought of giving up
sweets for six whole weeks!
Out comes the old faithful battered frying pan with
the caramel encrusted rim, speckles of tarnished aluminium raining though.
It also sits on the counter, proudly waiting for this year’s
performance.
The gas is turned on a few minutes later we can hear
the audible sounds beckoning; sizzling oil at the ready, a streaming hue of
smoke filled the kitchen. Will the thick creamy batter stretch to 3 whole
golden bridal trains? Molten gold poured from the sturdy Pyrex jug, a prized
procession.
Mums ambidrexous, delicate hands manoeuvring round and
round anti- clockwise working the pan in the left and the molten gold gliding
onto the pan. Too much would be a disaster, it would cause a gathering swamp
which would fuse in the middle
Hopefully it’s a perfect one that would glide around,
runaway mercury, and make a lacey edged train reminisce of a wedding dress
trailing along the aisle.
My impatient side would want the first one on offer,
the tester, booked for a year in advance being the oldest of four. A long wait
… my selfish side wanted the second one. The perfect one the wedding dress;
thinness of the bride, a fancy photographic finish, and 4 star treatment even
golden laced edges a perfect bridle picture.
A little peek
to see if underneath was ready. Her slender arm, not remembered for big warm
bear hugs, was pulled down like the old fashioned slot machine- timely released
“Are you ready?” mum announced. The first pull springs back, up, up, it goes,
spinning, spinning. The pancake flipped into the air turning.
Ready for the future the ups downs and flipping this
way or that and landing what ever way were needed. The knocks; that would shape
their life together. The first one landed, splat.
Shuffle, shuffle, sounds grated against the grid of
the stove with a steady vibrating action. Gripping on to the plate like a small
bouquet. The train- slips onto the blank canvas.
The train positioned cleverly by the photographer
watched by the waiting crowd me and my three brothers. Confetti dust not
coloured hard rice or the papery delicate paper was floating in the atmosphere
but alas the pearls of sun rays dancing down enlighten and constructing on the
canvas.
My mum always used lemon jif, a poor substitute, like
the unwanted guest at the wedding. Repeating the loving process adding more
rays of sugar pearls
tiptoeing on the pancake and the lemon strutting its
stuff, until the fork abruptly stabs and amputates, the finished article,
before entering the black hole. I Scoffed it quickly down, in seconds. It
didn’t have time to hit the sides.
Half way though the ceremony, the next one flipped and
landed. It would be savoured, tenderly eating each morsel. Aaahhh the sweetness,
contrasting with the acidic taste of lemon burning though. The soft crepe-
stodgy, soft, the crystals of sugar melting though, One flavour not
overpowering the other but complimenting and capsulated on the wedding photo
(canvas).The marriage of the sugar and lemon complementing the golden pretty
patterned border anglaise with the beautiful edge with the thick gooey Moor-ish
heaven.
Did she get the
balance right? Would the vows last forever?
The honeymoon period over, the perfect marriage it
would be the last one for a whole year, never the same picture not even the
same taste a year older?43 years on ,how many more pancakes would be savoured.
If you were lucky the jug would be squeezed out to
make an irregular crochet spider’s web and integrated and admired. I wondered
if mum was feeling generous and wanted to stay till the last dance.
More golden double thick
creamy batter mix was made this would ensure that visiting the buffet table
once too many times feeling sick, but secretly satisfied, enjoying that warm
fuzzy feeling of mum having fun. Remember and treasuring the feeling till the
next year. Time spent with us, half hour not succumbing to duties and chores
she wasn’t tied to the twin tub and the trails of washing scattering on the
kitchen floor, or traipsing around the shops walking miles with a pram while I
lugged the shopping trolley behind me.
The normal ritual was broken on Shrove Tuesday, it was
still only 4 o’ clock .Dad was not home. 5 o’clock was not etched on the clock our
routine tea time chilling, reminding me of the children’s rhyme “what time is
it Mr. Wolf”?
Listening to his Intermitting criticism and orders of
“get me ……. Mrs”! “Put the kettle on Mrs.!” “”Get me a fork! “ “This is
rubbish! “Where did you buy this? “Don’t get that again!” were spouting from
dad’s mouth, interrupting some good food. It was never what did you do at
school today? Were did you play today? I wanted to get away from the moaning
and back to my favourite programme on TV, because there was no pause button or
video recorder, could they invent a pause button, one that would, pause the
constant moaning?
We could rebel and stand up and eat, we weren’t
restricted by the table cloth sitting in our allocated seat .The table cloth
was important ,the table was never set correctly without it , sometimes; laced,
red, or even chequered sometimes too small, to protect the table. Pity we
couldn’t stick it in our ears, once dad proceeded to moan. The table cloth was
used over and over, the crumbs expertly gathered to be dispersed for the birds
at the back door.
With tactfully used blackmail and guilt our plates
were emptied of food
the difference being on pancake day We ‘wanted ‘to finish
the plate even sneakily licking the sugar pearls off the canvas making it thread bare and make it clean enough to put
back in the cupboard, lovingly, looking
forward to next year.
Three years ago
while on holiday in Holland, I discovered a different type of pancake; not the
crepe pancake, I was used to or the thick delicious toasted scotch pancake spread
with creamy butter, but a small petite ones I HAD to order a portion.
Sitting in the outdoor café, the table covered with a ‘chequered
blue plastic cloth’ watching while the holiday makers bustling up the street. I admired the chef, and the fruits of his labour,
his sweat covered brow .I wasn’t bothered that he had wiped his brow with the
tea towel; I was elated, I had discovered different pancakes which tasted even
better than mum’s!
It was so hot, slaving over the huge oiled pre stamped
out griddle, full of small cups of love. The chef ladling the molten gold
quickly and precisely, tiny plump pancakes served on a paper plate with
lashings of icing sugar dusted over the pancakes, and served with heart attack softened
butter melting in the midday heat.
A Holland flag
attached to a cocktail stick proudly sitting on top of the pile of pancakes, the
paper plate almost buckled with, all seventeen of them. “Wow!” they were like a sandcastle
ready to be demolished, bliss. I’m in heaven.
My selfish,
greedy side ate them all, but later on in the day I had to treat my sons to a
portion. I brought back the special pancake pan with just eight indentations,
as a holiday souvenir to make my own; any day of the year, not just on that
Tuesday! The one that precedes Ash Wednesday, every year.
