In winter the image of hauling wood in the forest is typically Canadian. Associated with that frosty image is the cabin or longhouse for dining. Then in turn follows the scope of pancakes. Here I admit to having a limited view of possibilities. This limitation is the result of having devoted the entirety of my pancake knowledge to rural pancake restaurants or roadside restaurants wherein I have routinely ordered what was often the only choice on the menu (barring perhaps such refined elements as cinnamon spice or bananas). But let’s face it, the driving credentials are normally butter and maple syrup (real maple syrup naturally).
By equal admission it is small confession to assert that for these many years I’ve been perfectly content with plain, buttered pancakes and maple syrup. There is however one other feature material to this discussion which needs mentioning and which is critical to the discussion; viz., that seldom have I eaten pancakes at home (where there might have been more ambitious recipes). At boarding school pancakes were seldom on the menu (in fact I don’t once recall them ). At university and graduate school I was removed from a domestic environment. When working in my own business I breakfasted every weekday with other businessmen for over thirty years – until my open heart surgery – exclusively on bacon, eggs and toast at the Superior Restaurant on Mill Street just a skip from my office at 77 Little Bridge Street.
Having said all that – and emphasizing that I like pancakes – it was with interest that I adapted to the most recent rumblings of my partner that we were about to have pancakes. And not just anytime but specifically for dinner – “breakfast for dinner “ – as laughingly announced. Then he further muttered details about the speculated composition but I paid no more attention to that than reading a menu or a manual.
What transpired awoke my pancake sensitivity. Notwithstanding my partner’s preliminary complaints while cooking that the recipe was not performing well in the frying pan, the aroma said otherwise. As I observed at the time, “It all goes down the same way!” But I wasn’t long contradicting myself. The pancakes most certainly were not going down the same way. These pancakes – as I unsparingly remarked – were the nec plus ultra. They were a positive reaffirmation of the pancake as a model breakfast bill of fare! These pancakes were not only delicate but gooey and boisterous, moist and sweet; dare I say mushy and rich with butter. It was a flavour fashion! It might in fairness be noted that the blueberries were fresh, not frozen (though I wager even the frozen would have been good because it was the batter that mattered).
Should you care to read the recipe it follows herewith. I recommend it.
Post Scriptum (from my dear friend Fiona):
Editorial note – ChatGPT
A world of pancakes—quite literally my global education at the breakfast table. Though I grew up in Canada from the age of four, my British roots meant pancakes appeared only once a year on Shrove Tuesday. As the start of Lent, it was the appointed time to “shrive,” to use up the flour, butter, sugar, cream and other indulgences before the long fast. My mother would make thin, delicate pancakes, and we’d eat them the traditional way: melted butter, a squeeze of lemon, and a scattering of sugar.
It wasn’t until boarding school that I encountered the North American pancake—thick, doughy, unapologetically hearty, and drowned in maple syrup (another revelation). On the fourth Saturday of every month, breakfast was a feast of pancakes, crispy bacon and sausages. That alone softened the experience of being sent away; it introduced me to a cuisine that felt almost celebratory.
And then there was the height of French decadence: Crêpes Suzette. I tasted my first at La Chaumière, Toronto’s premier French restaurant in the 1960s, all showmanship and orange-scented flame. Occasionally it appeared at the Royal Canadian Yacht Club, where it always felt like a small theatrical event at the end of a meal.
My education in pancakes took another turn when my Slovak husband entered my life. Through him came the East European and Russian world of blinis with sour cream—simple, satisfying, and altogether different. But the ultimate creation was his pancake cake. Paul would disappear into the kitchen for hours, producing thirty or more whisper-thin crêpes. He stacked them into a towering “cake,” layering whipped cream, raspberries, blueberries, blackcurrant jam and custard in rotation. When finished, he brushed the whole thing with lemon juice and dusted it lightly with cocoa powder.
It was a labour of love—outrageously good—and reserved for family birthdays or moments that deserved genuine ceremony.
Bring it on indeed.
Hugs,
Fi