Sunday, July 15, 2007
RiverTrippin’, plus Fruitylicious Dancakes
I made it a point neither to read nor write while I was away, with the exception of recipes. I just let things unfold and cherished them till they blew away in an upriver breeze.
We left Monday evening so I resigned myself to arriving after dark – and, more significantly, to finding my way along unfamiliar and likely unlit highways to a little street just before a little town I’d never visited. It sounded tricky, but as it turned out the turn was hard to miss and we arrived in the shank of a placid summer night. Z and E immediately took off playing with each other, alternately hugging and sharing toys, and snatching them away and pushing each other down, and then taking a few laps around the coffee table or a few belly-slides down the steep carpeted stairs…. We were lavished with succulent racks of porkrib and bowls of crispy gingersnaps; we shmoozed and got the lay of the land and began to settle into a vacation rhythm. When we went to our big comfortable room with two big comfortable beds, Z and I fell asleep together fast and hard and we slept right through till pancake time the next day.
Breakfast: fruitylicious dancakes. And Yes, I’m going to tell you how to make them. If you’ve stuck around this long you’ve earned it. Let’s not tarry, now, you’ve got flapjacks to jackflap. Here’s how I made them Tuesday morning: Mix, in a generous bowl, as follows: 2-1/2 cups of all-purpose flour, whisked together with 2 Tablespoons of baking powder, 4 Tablespoons of sugar, and about a teaspoon of cinnamon and half a teaspoon of coriander (for the bouquet, dontcha know). (Oh yes, you’ll need a whisk. A good one, for god’s sake. Not like that trashy one you took to the prom.) Then mix in a cup or two of frozen blueberries (which cook up much better than fresh; make sure they’re not frozen together). These are your dry ingredients. Respect them. Cherish them. Set them aside for a few minutes.
In a separate bowl whisk two eggs (egg beaters work too but make tougher cakes) with two Tablespoons of cooking oil (not olive oil) (what, are you crazy? Are you a crazy person, to even think of olive oil in the pancakes? Meshugener, that’s you. Well gesheuntheit.) Mix the egg and oil vigorously enough to blend it thoroughly. Don’t wimp out on the egg beating, man. Beat it like you mean it. Then whisk in two cups of liquid – mostly, if not entirely, milk (or something like it). Finally, mash an overripe banana into goo, stir it into the wet ingredients, and then dump the wet ingredients into the dry ones and whisk it all into a fairly consistent slurry. Make sure all the dry ingredients get incorporated. Let the mix sit for five minutes while you get an oiled griddle medium hot. (I like spray oil for this application – the traditional version crisps up the sides a little more than I like.)
Pour out about a ladlesworth of batter at a time – make the cakes no more than 10” across (1.3 hectares) or you won’t be able to flip’em. When they show active bubbling across their whole surface, use a thin spatula to separate them from the pan and then flip them over. This is actually a little tricky and practice helps. Sorry, no tips. Yer kakes are done when they look done, and will stand up to any goddamn syrup you want to pour. This should make about a dozen good-sized cakes. Bring it on, hotcake boy.
The rest of Tuesday we spent at the riverbank, wading across the gentle invigorations of the whole damn Russian River, our two families rafting and tubing and playing at baseball and on beached canoes, an authentic frolic in the woodlands and it couldn’t have come at a better time for me. After we got home I napped, showered, and put together some marinated pan-friend Brussels sprouts that worked well with the fire-grilled New York strip and bonus pork ribs that took center stage on every plate. Dessert was pineapple bread pudding with English custard sauce and after that there wasn’t much left of the evening for any of us.
Wednesday broke overcast and stayed that way long enough for us to drive out to the coast and the debouchment of the river into the pacific. We walked a long and lonely beach that was decorated tastefully with a discreet arrangement of tendrilous seaweeds, beached protoplasmic jellyfish, and delightful beds of parti-colored pebbles. Z sidled up to me, reached up to take my hand, and gently invited me – “come, daddy” – to wade with him in the broad lip of waves as they expended themselves on the strand. He giggled and squealed as he chased the foamy wavering vergepoint between land and sea, and he delighted in stomping his thick little feet into the wet sand till they were half-buried and a wave would catch him stuck there. The only tears were when we told him it was time for us to leave.
But leave we did – we left Blind Beach, and then, a healthy pizza-and-grilled-cheese-sandwich lunch later, we left our friends, left Guerneville altogether, drove the hell home and now I’m writing again. It was a time that was to time what caramel is to candy – dense, chewy, easy to dig your teeth into and hard to leave once you’ve started, and, of course, sweet enough to give you shivers. But the thing about caramels is, once you’ve had a little one, you want the rest of the goddamn bag. I’m not complaining, believe me – it was a fantastic break and I appreciate it with every fiber of my being. I could just use, you know, a little more. And really, who couldn’t?
Thanks, Mitch and Cath and Eli, for an excellent river adventure. And for the rest of you, get the hell out and hit the water! The way it seems to me is, if you can make out there on a sunny Tuesday, it’ll even feel more satisfying!
