A CARDINAL rule which has stood me in good stead for a lifetime is this – only do what you’re good at and you’ll earn a totally undeserved reputation for excellence. It’s called ‘fooling all of the people all of the time’.
Among my many inadequacies is an inability to make pancakes. Unlike Robert the Bruce, inspired by the perseverance of a spider, I believe if at first you don’t succeed, give up and get shop-bought.
My conscience is pricked this weekend in the supermarket by the reproachful sight of a gaily gingham clad table invitingly laid out with all the ingredients necessary for the home made celebration of Pancake Tuesday.
I duck into the adjoining aisle and buy a packet of ‘proper’ pancakes, made by professionals who know what they’re doing.
Despite the television tips of Delia, Jamie, Nigella, Paul et al, the principles of batter defeat me.
The simple combination of flour, fat and liquid into a smooth cream turns into a gloopy wallpaper paste the colour and consistency of orphanage gruel, or else a clotted, sticky sludge which drops heavily off the spoon to lie sulking in a puddle of hot grease, slowly developing acne over its pasty complexion.
The sad and misshapen result has the look of a coated tongue the texture of a loofah and adheres to the roof of the mouth with all the persistence of a rubber sink plunger.
I inherited much from my mother, (including her nose and her sharp tongue,) but few of her culinary skills.
Despite a shelf-full of cookery books (all in pristine condition,) I work on the principle of ‘life’s too short to stuff a mushroom’ and embrace the ready made with alacrity – and gratitude.
My chief skill is concealing the boxes and cartons at the bottom of the bin.
My mother belonged to a generation who cooked by the rule of thumb, whose measures were handfuls and pinches, nips and shakes, whose ingredients were rarely the same twice running and who had the courage to experiment.
I see her now – rattling the big spoon round the crazed delph baking bowl where seemingly random quantities of ingredients obediently blend.
“This is a crumpet recipe you know, not pancakes at all,” she says every time, but she never tells me what the recipe is.
I watch her, a heel of hard margarine in her hand, anointing with quick strokes the blackened old cast-iron pan. Dollop!
A single creamy disc appears in the pan, another, a third, precisely placed as domino dots.
Mother stands sentinel, watching the surface dull and bubble and the edge turn to golden lace, her wand of office an ancient fish-slice worn razor thin.
Dollop – flick – rub over and over again in perfect economy of effort. You could set it to music. It’s culinary choreography.
As chief assistant I build the crazy tower of finished pancakes. They are thick and velvety, deliciously yielding to a pressed finger, butter, sugar and lemon juice between. We eat as many as we stack.
“You can have the wee wonky ones,” she says and misshapes a few on purpose. We laugh and rub our greasy fingers on a damp cloth.
In early married life, imbued with ambition for self improvement, came my most inglorious Pancake Tuesday episode.
Stopping by a home bakery I spot some big thin fancy crepes. “I could do something interesting with those,” I think, “to make up for them being bought.”
“They look like table-mats,” says Daughter Dear. “Taste like them too,” she adds. And indeed, they are peculiarly resilient as if made of some rubberised material. I’m sure they contain a percentage of lycra.
I fiddle about with fillings and a creamy sauce. The end result on the plate looks like a row of small vulcanised bolsters.
“What’s this?” asks the Loving Spouse suspiciously. “Savoury pancakes,” I say, “for the day that’s in it.”
“Oh…” he replies ruefully, “I’ve just eaten a stack of home made ones – down in my mother’s.”
Moral – ‘never let your reach exceed your culinary grasp’. Another of life’s lessons learned….
