Pancake day is never how you think it's going to be. You're too full of misty memories of coming home from school in the dark, and walking into your childhood kitchen where your mum's frying these things in six tons of butter. And you eat them on a cracked plate, with blissful amounts of sugar, and one squeeze of lemon (too healthy). Then you ask for more, and more ....
Mine never taste the same. Yet I'm sure I follow the same pattern as my mum. Light up a fag while the butter gets hot, chuck some of that egg-filled batter in, swear at the cat, moan when Son wants another one, then another fag after the washing up. I'm sure that's the correct recipe.
A mini-version of myself, Son demands about six of them just like I did. But I'm damned if they taste the same! I've even used the same burnt pan!
Frying these days seems very different to the frying my mum did. I can't bring myself to use Lard, I have to say, but butter I'm all for! Otherwise it's a little drop of namby pamby Olive Oil! Something you would have got beaten up for round my way! Bloody right an' all!
Whenever I used to ask my mum for chips, she used to say, between puffs: "I'm not standing there, cooking chips!" So whenever homemade chips are mentioned in this more sanitised household, I always imagine someone standing by the cooker! Spooky!! Especially as they're put in the oven now!
Quite fancy a pancake now. Sod it!