For as long as I can remember, my mom's had this one pancake recipe memorised. She whips it out whenever there's not much left in the cupboard, or when I'm feeling particularly sad, or when someone has a birthday, or when my Grampa comes over from the cottage and needs a pick-me-up. We had them for breakfast the day I came back from Paris. It took me back to such a good place in my memories: moments where I sat at the round kitchen table in Grampian road while my mom chaotically churned out pannekoek after pannekoek to a myriad of random guests that would drop by. That happened a few times. It's happened many since.
So they have a good rep, in my opinion. This week's been really hard, so pancakes were the breakfast of choice this morning. They're the first thing my mom taught me how to make, but this morning she sighed as she glanced into the mixture to see blue goo. I needed something happy, and blue pancakes seem to do the trick. If I ever offer to make you pancakes, reader, it is because you are dearly loved, and I just want to make you happy!
