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Great, BIG Buttermilk Pancakes!

Friendship enhances the luster of prosperity and by dividing and sharing adversity lessens its burden.
                                                                                                                    -CICERO
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I awaken. I put my glasses and my sweat pants on.   I go into the bathroom and pee.

I go into the kitchen, and make a full pot of coffee.   I fire up Lee Morgan's 'Sidewinder' CD.   I fire it up loud, since my wife's spending the weekend at her best friend's house. I watch the sunrise.
I feed the cats.

I call one Brenda Marie Morabito on my cellphone.
"What's up?"
"Was just gonna ask you the same question."
"Northbound 676."
"Homebound?"
"Yep.   Breakfast bound."
"Good!   That means you're headed over to my house."
She laughs.   "Really?"
"Yeah. I gotcha breakfast right heah!"
"Uh-huh!" She giggles.   "What are you making?"
Hmm.   What am I making? Oh, I know.   "Pancakes."
"Oh yeah!   Count me there."
"Where did you say you were?"
"676."
"Camden?"
"Yep.   I'll be there in like 45 or so."
I press the 'end' button.   Pancakes.   Well, as it happens, my wife bought buttermilk for a recipe she was going to experiment with.   I can always get more.   I take out the buttermilk from the fridge, along with the eggs, and a big, blue Tupperware container labeled 'Bisquick' from the oil/vinegar cabinet.   In a minute, I have a batter going.   What I'm gonna do, is let the batter sit for a half hour or more.   It becomes wonderfully rich and thick when you do that.   I pull out the largest soup ladle from the ceramic container next to my stove, along with a large, workhorse spatula, and let it sit next to the stove.   I pour myself coffee, and open the Sunday Trenton Times, and relax.

After about 40 minutes, or so, I heat up this long, stand-up griddle my mother gave us before she and my father moved down to sunny Florida, lay on the butter, and proceed to make pancakes.   Big pancakes.   Each as big as a brake rotor on a Kenworth.   The big soup ladle's perfect for duty like this.   These pancakes are gonna be enormous, an inch thick.   You see, this is the hospitality I show my friends.   I'm thinking Brenda can finish...well...at least a couple of these.   A...few?

Lee Morgan gives way to Horace Silver.   Good Sunday morning music, of the secular variety, of course. The sun is joyfully lighting up my street, melting the frost covering cars and other surfaces.   The heavenly aroma of buttermilk pancakes fills the air, quite like music from a carnival, and Tyler, our orange and white tabby, chases Star, our tiger calico, around the house.   Finally, the doorbell rings.

"Oh, my God," Brenda says, in awe.   "I can't believe how good that smells!"
We both head towards the kitchen; awaiting Brenda, on the table, is a large plate with two of the Rose Bowl sized pancakes, next to a container of Log Cabin, and a stick of Breakstone unsalted.   Two more pancakes sizzle on the griddle, as Horace plays in the background.
"Holy Jesus, those are the biggest pancakes I've ever seen!"
"Well, do I take care of my friends, or what?"
"I guess you do!" Brenda removes her hunting vest, as well as her blue Peterbilt ballcap, and sits down.   "What do you do for an encore?"
"Make more pancakes." I go over, and flip over the two on the griddle. They're classically spotted brown in the middle, mixed with yellow, and have a solid brown rim crust on the edges.   "I can't believe Carolyn's missing out on this.   But then, she'd insist that I'm not making them her way."
"I'm more insistent than you are.   Everything's gotta be my way.   I've learned my lesson."
Pause. "You met somebody, didn't you, Bren."
She looks up. "Huh?"
"You met someone.   That's why you've been acting so unlike yourself lately."
Brenda continues eating.   No perceptable change in body language.
"You met someone and you're afraid you're gonna jinx it by talking about it."
"Bright boy."
I decide to back off.   I think I nailed it.   I'm not gonna push it.   Unless...
"I notice neither of us can get anything past each other."
Both pancakes are done.   I put them aside, should she still be sufficiently hungry enough to tilt at that windmill.   I prepare several smaller ones for myself.   "When did you meet her?"
"Month ago.   I'm trying to get it started.   Hasn't been easy."
"How does Rosie feel?"   Keep in mind, with anyone else, it would be regarded as a flippant, even ill-natured question.   However, the spirit of Rosalie DiLeo (Brenda's first partner, who tragically died very young) is one that Brenda considers her guardian angel; she sits on her shoulder, offering counsel.   Brenda claims she disregarded her counsel frequently in the past.   Now, she earnestly seeks her approval.
"Rosie feels good about her," Brenda says quietly.
"I'm not gonna ask anymore."
"Listen, when the time is right, if it works out, you'll meet her.   But, yeah, I don't wanna jinx anything.   You gotta promise me one thing, though."
"What?"
"That no matter what, you get to make my pancakes from now on."
"Sure."
Brenda has finished her plate; she takes the other two monsters for herself. "I used to think PJ's on Nassau in Princeton made the best pancakes around.   I was wrong."
"Thank you."
The phone rings.   It's my wife.
"What are you doing up so early?" I ask.
"She's got the heat up to ninety-five goddamn degrees!"
"Brenda's here, you wanna say hello?"
"Sure."
Brenda takes the phone.   "Listen, you wanna rent him out?....Why, because he knows how to make pancakes..." I hear Carolyn laughing on her end of the phone.   "I'd pay good money for this shit!"
I suppose she would.   Right now, I'm spending the money in my mind.

Posted by Knoxxie03 on 2008-02-03 08:19:20 | Rating: