Forest fire

This morning I made pancakes. Sundays are different in Montevideo. When I'm in Montevideo on the weekends I attend a church service at 7 in the evenings so my mornings are beautifully different than what I've grown accustomed to the the States. Saturday night I had promised a pancake breakfast to Greg and so when he woke up at 11 this morning he walked into my doorway and said, “Pancakes?”

Sadly, I couldn’t remember our family recipe so I had to find one online. After a few changes: less salt, more sugar, three dashes of cinnamon, an extra spoonful of vanilla, a touch of oil, I was ready to fry the pancakes.

1 1/2 coffee mugs of flour
2 baby spoons of salt
1/2 coffee mug of sugar
1 1/4 coffee mug of milk
1 egg
1/3 of the piece of butter from the refrigerator
2.5 baby spoons of vanilla
2 baby spoons of oil

In the apartment we have a gas stove/oven unit. I very much so prefer gas stoves to electric, so this is a joy for me. However, in relation to gas stoves and food, I have a reputation of burning the first two pancakes, or whatever food I’m preparing. That being said after my first pancake, the apartment looked like those smoke houses that the fire companies brought to the elementary schools. Instead of teaching fire safety and how to properly crawl to the nearest exit, all I wanted to do was make some darn pancakes.




















The funny part of this story was when Grandpa came into the kitchen to see what was on fire. There is a fan above the stove to help with such circumstances and it was on the lowest setting. Grandpa promptly turned it on high and mumbled something about más fuerte (stronger). He then proceeded to look at the frying pan and made an hmmm-mmm noise. I laughed out loud and said, “Surely not this one, maybe the next few.”

As expected the first two pancakes looked like they were cooked in a forest fire and then run over by a truck. After turning down the heat and using a dab of butter in the frying pan instead of oil, I was doing fine and the pancakes looked decent. Grandma even called me a good cook. Holla.
















By noon, the pancake batter was all used and the pancakes were happily sitting on the table being eaten by Greg. I had invited Grandma to try one and she was standing in the kitchen chatting with Greg and I. I washed all the dishes and then grabbed a plate to test one of the pancakes. There were about 5 more to be eaten and so I told Greg that he could eat as many as he wanted. Grandma pipes up- “Oh no, you can’t eat them. Look at the hour, it’s almost time for lunch.” Greg and I smiled and nodded our agreement. When Grandma left the kitchen to go back to her solitaire game, I laughed and whispered to Greg, “I was 10 years old when I was last told not to eat before a meal.”

Grandma means well and we love her for it.