Pancakes by the Pound

…in case you gave a crepe

I’ve been seeing a lot about love, this week – of course, as Valentine’s Day is smack-bang in the middle of it. I’ve seen banners declaring these Valentine’s Day gifts the perfect Valentine’s Day gifts. I’ve seen thinkpieces about the very idea of love itself. I particularly liked this one, by Maria Del Russo, and especially this line:

I realize now that, when people talk about “just knowing” when you meet the right person, the knowing is less about recognizing a feeling, or experiencing peace, or looking at the other person and thinking, “Oh, that’s right.” The knowing is more about knowing yourself, and your limits, and your boundaries, and what you’er willing to deal with, and what you truly want in that moment.

I’ve seen Valentine’s-themed jumpers and, bizarrely, matching family ensembles (are there families who dress up for Valentine’s Day?!).

In short, I’ve seen quite enough Valentine’s content to last me… if not a lifetime, then at least the year. But you know what I haven’t seen enough of? Pancake content. Where are the pancake content creators?!

I am someone who adheres religiously to the observance of Pancake Tuesday, which falls, this year, the day before Valentine’s Day (making Valentine’s Day also Ash Wednesday, so any Catholics among us can pretty much forget about looking cute on their V Day dates), in no small part thanks to the adherence of my parents to Pancake Tuesday.

Now, for any Americans in the room (hi, Doug!), I should clarify: the pancakes I speak of, when I speak of Pancake Tuesday, are crepes, in other words, proper pancakes. They are not these puffy, fluffy, stacks of fried batter Americans refer to as pancakes, no.

They are paper-thin, spread to encompass the diameter of a pan, fried in a little butter and, ideally, flipped dramatically at the halfway point (approximately 30 seconds in, once the batter begins to bubble).

They are then eaten with, really, whatever you like, but I’m a purist so I choose lemon and sugar – granulated, so there’s some bite to it, a sandy sensation between the teeth – or, if I’m feeling truly decadent (or, more likely, someone else is making the pancakes), folded around a chunk of ice-cream, dipped in batter and deep-fried.

My mother spent a year in France, au pairing for a family in Paris who had 17 children under the age of five and never threw out a single scrap of food as it was all produced on Sundays in the form of leftovers. The way she talks about it, you’d swear she was there for a decade, or longer; that she managed to pack so many life lessons – and recipes! – into one year is truly astonishing, what with the time she must have spent changing nappies and sucking up to the maman of the family, with whom she is still great friends.

In any case, when one of the many French babies was a teenager, they came to visit my parents one February, not, I would think, the ideal month to visit Ireland but who knows what logic lay behind the decision.

It was Pancake Tuesday during her visit and she, like a good guest, volunteered to make the pancakes. (That my parents allowed this doesn’t paint their hosting skills in the best light, I’ll admit, but that’s beside the point.)

To hear them tell it, they sat at the dining room table for hours awaiting the delivery of crepes from the kitchen, not wanting to appear rude by asking what, exactly, was holding things up. I imagine my mother asking if she needed any help, if she could do anything. “Non, ça va!” Frenchie would have said, wiping her forehead with the skirt of her apron.

Finalement, out from the kitchen emerged la Française, holding a plate of perfect pancakes, stacked, says Dad, almost to the ceiling.

Accustomed to cooking for her dozens of siblings, she had made enough pancakes to feed a small army. My Dad – not having yet discovered the smug superiority that comes from dieting – ate twenty-something, he says, before he had to abandon his post. Maybe that’s why he spends so much time, reading in his La-Z-Boy; he’s still recovering.

In honour of that French visitor and her mile-high stack of crepes, Pancake Tuesday is the one day of the year when, without fail, my mother makes too much food. (Ordinarily, she’s killed telling you how a meal for four will feed 16 over the course of a week – hers is a very creative arithmetic.)

It’s not about overeating, per se, but it’s a day of plenty. No one’s left wanting more, and there’s no fighting over the last pancake because there’s always another where that came from.

I’ve let go of a lot, since moving to the US. I say “wadder” now, because no one understands me otherwise; I’ve given into my husband and his love of hamburger helper; I’ve even stopped trying to sneak vinegar on to my family’s chips (which, of course, I now call fries); I never beep my horn, a great hobby of mine before I moved to the country of road rage with guns.

But what I will not let go of is Pancake Tuesday, and it must be done right. The rules are simple (but important).

1. The pancake recipe is essential. Americans think they know how to make pancakes, and they do, I guess, but not these pancakes. (Brandin even told me, once, that it didn’t matter if there were lumps in the pancake batter! Sacrilege!) I use this BBC recipe that has never failed me.

2. There must be too many. See above. But seriously: that BBC recipe claims to feed eight, but I would double it for our family of five. Because…

3. The pancakes are the meal. They’re not dessert. They’re not a side dish. They are in place of dinner and dessert, and we don’t want anyone leaving the table hungry.

4. The lemon juice must be fresh. Fresh lemons, cut into wedges. Granulated sugar, as I mentioned. Lemon juice in a little squeezy bottle? Icing (confectioner’s) sugar? An abomination!

5. The first pancake is always terrible, but still it belongs to the chef and the chef alone.

6. Though the making of the pancake feast may take an hour or so, no one eats until everyone is seated. Including the chef. (This does not apply to pancake #1, which may be eaten immediately.) The pancakes are kept warm on a plate, atop a pot of simmering water, while all of the batter is used up.

Once the pancakes have been eaten, you must commence a nonsensical conversation about what you’ll be giving up for Lent (which begins the following day), even – and especially – if you know you’ll be giving up nothing. I always say I’m going to give up Diet Coke, and cursing.

Wishing you all a week full of pancakes, and, I guess love.

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No idea why now, today, this week, but I’ve been listening to this song a lot.