Does anyone know how to make oatmeal pancakes? They sound pretty good, don't they? I suppose they could be if one knew how to make them. I have a recipe. I have two recipes and I still can't make them right.
I'll start by mentioning the reason I made oatmeal pancakes. It wasn't because I thought they sounded so wonderful. No. It was because I was really hungry and needed to find something to make that I had most of the ingredients for. That's how we eat in this house. I should have started with basic pancakes and worked my way up, but I didn't have enough flour.
I haven't made pancakes in years, but I remember the basics to good pancakes: don't over stir the batter; wait until the water "dances" on the griddle before you put the pancakes on; flip the cakes when they are bubbling on top. Easy enough.
These pancakes were doomed from the start. I should have simply said, "Honey, let's go to breakfast," when I realized that I was supposed to cook the oatmeal before I mixed it with the floor. As soon as I mixed those two ingredients together, I thought how the heck are these oats going to cook in the little amount of water in this recipe? I looked at the recipe again . . .. oh.
So, I cooked the oatmeal with the flour in it. Being the impatient sort, I didn't wait for the oatmeal to cool down before I mixed the rest of the ingredients together. Mistake two, but I kept going.
What I need to realize is that recipes are written for a reason and that things cook properly and end up looking and tasting good is because the ingredients were mixed correctly. I don't know enough about cooking to start throwing things together willy nilly. I have a great cookbook that provides all sorts of information about proper cooking procedures and why you should or shouldn't do something, but I just don't pay attention. I keep thinking I'll "trick" the ingredients into doing what I want.
I finished mixing the pancake batter. I had to over mix it because the flour was getting clumpy from being cooked with the oatmeal. Then it was time to heat up the griddle and since we don't have one of those, a frying pan would have to do. It's been so long since I've made pancakes, I couldn't remember exactly what dancing water drops looked like. I recall it being more of a pogo-like movement rather than a waltz, but I saw neither. I just poured the batter on before the pan started smoking.
It was amazing to me how long those things cooked without burning. It amazed me even more that they still seemed raw in the middle. I decided to brown them nicely and pop them in the oven to keep them cooking and warm. It took several pours to get the size just right for flipping. I was flinging little pieces of pancake all over the place. By about the sixth pancake, I was laughing hysterically, because I was already imagining my boyfriend's face when he saw his breakfast.
I had shooed him out of the kitchen earlier telling him I wanted it to be a surprise. Boy would it. He was now sitting out in the living room patiently awaiting his feast, but expressing concern over my laughter. I am really not a cruel person, but I realized at this point that no matter what I did, this was not going to make it in Martha Stewart's kitchen. When all else fails, laugh your head off.
Now it was time to eat. I put all of the pancakes and pancake puzzle pieces in a dish and carried them out. My boyfriend didn't say a word. He just picked up his fork, stabbed a few cakes and put them on his plate. A little butter, a little syrup. He took a bite. I wish I could describe the sound. (This is why I'm having such a hard time writing anything worthwhile. I can't describe things like this sound.) The best thing I can come up with is the sound made when you eat octopus or calimari. That rubbery sort of "squealy" sound. Oh my God! I started laughing again.
He stopped mid chew and asked me what was wrong. "Nothing. How is it?" I asked.
"It's okay. Why?"
I told him of the misadventures in the kitchen.
"It tastes like fried oatmeal. It's okay," he said, continuing to chew.
"So, you want me to try these again next weekend?" I asked.
Silence.
"We could start a new Sunday breakfast tradition, oatmeal pancakes."
He chewed, swallowed and smiled. Then he leaned over and kissed me. "These are just fine honey, but maybe we should put Bisquick on the shopping list."