This Pancake is a Meal

“You mean she didn’t tell you?” Your eyes are wide, your spine unfolds from slouch to straight. We’ve hung around the kitchen island, drinking coffee, yakking, for what feels like hours. You are my guest, you’re hungry now and I was not prepared.

“Don’t worry. So you don’t eat wheat. We’ll figure something out.” Was it really just this April that I encountered spelt? Le Vatout’s first guests, two young women, brought it in their suitcase as if they knew I didn’t have a clue about what they called special diets. Since, I’ve been learning on the job. Slowly, my cupboards filled with foreign matter: decaf, creamer, NutraSweet…

“For me spelt is no solution. It’s the gluten I’m allergic to.”

Slowly, my repertoire extended. “How about hash browns made with fresh potatoes?” I’m thinking crumbled sausage, onions, parsley, a bit of chopped up sage.” My hand opens the top drawer, reaching for my kitchen scissors; my mind turns to my herbs…

“Sorry. I can’t eat nightshades either. Potatoes, tomatoes – they make my knuckles hurt.” You fold yourself back into your body. All loose limbs tied into a knot.

Slowly, my database of guests acquired annotations; does not like spices, prefers her eggs with ketchup, will not drink milk, does not eat meat. I like to accommodate. My proudest moment was a three-course dinner I cooked last month for four. One vegetarian, one no-wheat, one no-salt – one real meal made from real ingredients that satisfied them all. I like rising to a challenge. I like figuring it out. “Well, there is always buckwheat. It is a fruit, you know? I could make blueberry pancakes, just plain old buckwheat, an egg, some milk… ”

“I love buckwheat! But I can’t do dairy, though butter is okay.”

Against my instincts I glance at your sister. She shrugs. “We’re used to this. Just fix what he prefers. I’ll eat whatever you prepare.”

“Now, that’s not fair! You make me out as if I’m hard to please. Aside from dairy, wheat and nightshades I really do eat anything. Even gave you a copy of my favorite cookbook, but no one in this family ever read it, no one ever cared.”

“Nuts. What if I were to add some walnuts? I fear that without milk and flour, the texture will be rubber.”

Slowly you turn back toward me. Your eyes, all cloudy liquid, reveal a hint of glint. “Rice flour maybe…”

“…spelt is all I have.”

“You could add in a banana, that should give it heft.”

I do. It does. And your eyes shine again. But I’m not satisfied. That afternoon I drive to Damariscotta, buy rice flour at Rising Tide.

The next time I make pancakes, I’m in my element. Mush up a ripe banana, mix it with an egg, add a half a cup each of buckwheat and rice flour and some water, stir, add more water and stir again until the texture’s right, substantial, but still pourable. I chop the walnuts while I melt some butter in my favorite pancake pan, pour in my mix and top it with the nuts and a few handfuls of fresh-picked blueberries. I have the flame on high, so quickly the pancake edge starts bubbling and, after a few seconds, the middle starts to set.

Now is the time to flip.

The pancakes of my childhood were large, large as a plate, and plump. They came in many variations and though I was a picky eater, I reveled in them all. My mother liked them savory, with onions and with bacon chunks, served with green salad as a hearty lunch, or – my father’s favorite – topped with chanterelles we foraged in the woods. My grandmother preferred them with slices of tart apples, dusted with cinnamon and sugar and butter puddling on the surface; my grandmother liked sweet. No matter how they cooked them, each pancake was a meal. Their faces when they turned these meal-sized pancakes made the task look daunting. Each a reflection of the other, mouths crimped, eyes narrowed, rumpled brows, they were my archetypes of steely focus. Each followed her completed toss with a determined “So!”

Now, that I’m behind the stove, I find it’s really not that bad. I don’t attempt pan-wielding acrobatics, I just slide a spatula and flip. The buckwheat bottom greets me golden brown and blueberries sizzle in the pan. Another thirty seconds on medium heat and my pancake’s done. I flip it one more time to get it right side up and slide it on your plate. And make the other one.

I serve you both, hang back and watch you drizzle maple syrup, watch you taste the crucial bite. You smile and keep on eating, relaxed and still, but leaning right above your plate. It is your sister who exclaims, “This is delicious!” and she offers me a bite. It is. Fluffy and yet full of texture, rich with banana and with that nutty buckwheat taste, this pancake does not spell “special diet”, this pancake is a meal.

Two days later, as you leave, you hand me a big book. Nourishing Traditions is its title and on the cover is a sun. “This is now my only copy, but you may have it for a while. I’ll be back to get it, maybe later in the fall.”

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