The reports of my spring are greatly exaggerated.
Um, oops? Still learning, I guess.
We were so high on warm weather that when we drove to Philadelphia last week (more on that later), we packed accordingly. And on our first day, I was so glad we did, since the 75°weather left us longing for t-shirts.
And then came day two. The mercury headed south, took out a new lease, and bobbled around freezing—sometimes over, often under—for the duration of our Pennsylvania stay. We drove two hours through snow in the Alleghenies. We marveled at our location on the Delaware River. Partly because it was within spitting distance of John Penn's 1682(!) landing. Mostly because the wind whipping off the water made tooth-chattering our every day's soundtrack.
The trip was fantastic, but the windbreakers were seriously inadequate.
And then, when we returned, a full day of flakes. I saw the reports, guffawed at the rumors, but friends, on March 30, it really happened. The first hours were half-hearted, fly-away stuff. Surely, this won't stick, I said until three. I quit fibbing, around four o'clock. By five, I'd figured out why the hellebore always hangs its head. And crossed my fingers on behalf of all our new shoots. It's a hard-knock life for bulbs and buds, here.
I guess Ohio didn't get the ..out like a lamb bit. Playground talk turned to war stories, tales of wool coats worn in May. Homework happened against the weirdest of backdrops, all spring within, all winter without. You know I don't mind. I'm just a little incredulous. As the boys scuffled through powder to school the next morning, I couldn't help wishing it would hang around another day. Snow on the first? Now that would be one first-rate April Fool's prank. It melted, of course, but mental notes were made. Spring, apparently, happens in fits and starts around here.
Much like most of our weekday mornings. It's funny, looking back, that I've no real recollection of weekday mornings, not one single hustle-bustle memory, before school. Maybe my mom ran a tighter, better, calmer ship. Maybe I suffer from that peculiar one-sided amnesia known as The Child's Perspective. This is a recurring theme for me this decade, the wildly different view from this grown-up side of the table.
First weeks' back are, in my experience, always herky-jerky, especially full of highs and lows. Everyone's a bit off, a bit tired, a bit draggy. Even me. Especially me. Getting up early helps, though I don't always do it. Banishing the word "hurry!" helps, but ditto that last line. Having a breakfast line-up helps, and miracle of miracles, we've mostly nailed that last one, this year.
I am not, and never have been, a menu person. Most days, most meals, I cook from the hip, by which I mean what's fresh and good in the market, and what's left of time and energy in the home. I've begun to suspect this is not the best strategy, that some semblance of dinner planning might benefit one and all. I'm working on that; no progress, yet. In the mornings, however, I'm pleased to report that we've sort of almost arrived at a routine. Pleased partly because my mornings now involve less thinking. Pleased mostly because that routine involves pancakes. Oatmeal pancakes, in particular, which are about as pleasing as a pancake can be.
Oatmeal pancakes—or oat cakes, as I think of them—are enjoying their fifteen minutes, at the moment. I'm pleased about this also, as it's long overdue. I first met these lovely flapjacks half a dozen years back, when the late, great Gourmet ran a recipe for Griddle Cakes. They were purportedly from Scotland, and abundantly delicious, and the only reason they never became a regular was because the yield was a lot. This is a common problem among pancakes; they are geared to feed a crowd.
Fast forward five years and two kids, and I have my own crowd, albeit a wee one. (Incidentally? Having enough appetites to justify mid-week pancakes ranks high on the list of reasons to have children, right up there with their utility as a built-in excuse for spontaneous ice cream stops, county fair attendance, and weekly library forays.) By now, we have a short list of favorites, from ricotta cloud cakes to the classic buttermilk. But if you measure favorites by running a simple frequency, oat cakes leave all others in the dust.
The important thing about oats is they bring amazing flavor, an earthy, nutty sweetness that is downright delightful. The oats themselves dissolve into the batter, leaving only their soft mellow spirit behind. If you've only ever eaten a plain, jane pancake, you may just do a double-taste. An oat cake has character, backbone, personality, raison d'être beyond butter-and-syrup.
The other important thing about oats is they guarantee great texture, every time. Oats lack gluten, the gold standard for bread, and the bug-a-boo for all wheat-based pancakes. All those stern warnings to leave lumps in your batter? Attempts to prevent said gluten from acting up, and turning your pancakes tedious and tough. By co-mingling the wheat with a gluten-free grain, oat cakes are uniformly, exquisitely tender. Even before coffee. Even before consciousness.
(This first fuzzy shot is the way they always look, to me. That second, below, is I suppose the way my children see them. How is it that they wake up so sharp and raring?)
We have worked our way through many an oat cake recipe over the years, and the one that follows is our current favorite. For much of this year, we tweaked Kim Boyce's version, swapping maple syrup for her molasses, and halving the quantities, to suit our stomachs. It is lovely; I recommend it. But it involves a cup of cooked oatmeal, and my two oatmeal eaters went on hot cereal sabbatical a few months back. (My morning routine, like spring in Ohio, is nothing if not a crooked path). Enter Molly's version, which involves the brilliant step of soaking raw oats in buttermilk the night before. (Also, a brilliant amount of melted butter). The oats melt and soften into a thick slurry, all but cooking in the buttermilk, ceviche-style.
What this means, of course, is that you cannot wake up and decide to start these oat cakes from scratch, first thing. (Try these, if you want that.) What this means, instead, is that the heavy mental lifting of deciding is all taken care of the night before. Which, if you're me, means you get to start your day with fewer fits and far more happy.
Oatmeal Pancakes
Yield: 10-12 3” pancakes
adapted from Kim Boyce, Good to the Grain, and Molly Wizenberg, Orangette
These pancakes—all pancakes, really—benefit, I find, from a low-ish medium heat and generous greasing of the pan. Gentle cooking allows interior and exterior to cross the finish line at the same time, preventing the dreaded Cajun pancake (blackened outside, raw within). And no small squirt of cooking spray can deliver the shattery, eminently lovely crust of a pancake cooked in a thin slip of hot buttered oil.
Please note that the oats begin soaking the night before.
1 cup old-fashioned rolled oats
1 cup buttermilk, shaken
scant ½ cup flour (white, whole wheat, or spelt)
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon kosher salt
4 tablespoons (½ cube) butter, melted, and cooled slightly
1 egg, lightly beaten
2 tablespoons maple syrup
Additional butter and vegetable oil, for the pan
Maple syrup, for serving
The night before:
Combine oats and buttermilk in a small bowl, and refrigerate overnight.
The next morning:
Remove oat-buttermilk slurry from refrigerator. Set aside, to warm slightly.
In a medium bowl, combine flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Set aside.
Add egg, melted butter, and maple syrup to oat slurry. Pour oat-egg mixture into flour mixture, and stir to combine. The batter should be substantial, the consistency of thick yogurt.
Place a large non-stick skillet or griddle over a gentle medium heat, and melt a knob of butter with a splash of neutral oil (butter for flavor, oil to prevent burning). Pour batter by the shy quarter cup, allowing room for spreading and flipping. My 12” skillet accommodates 3-4 per batch. Cook for 3-4 minutes, until bubbles appear around edges and bottom is golden. If bottom is browning too quickly, nudge down the heat. Cook another two minutes or so, until reverse side colors nicely, and pancakes are cooked through.
Re-grease pan with butter and oil mixture between batches, and repeat until all batter is gone.
Serve immediately, with butter and maple syrup.