by Beth Buchanan
Preparation
You open your phone again to read your son鈥檚 last text message. 鈥�We鈥檙e on the bus. Sent at 9:58 AM.鈥� She鈥檚 with him, your only son鈥檚 girlfriend. In fact, you鈥檝e never met any of his girlfriends before. He鈥檚 informed you that she鈥檚 鈥渁 foodie鈥�, so you plan to spend time with her in the kitchen. You鈥檒l teach her how to cook one of his favourites 鈥� Irish pancakes. At no fault of her own, she鈥檚 American and needs to learn the difference.
You give the kitchen a once over ensuring all necessary ingredients are in the cupboards, dishes out of the sink, the counters wiped down, everything organised with the right amount of intimidation. She doesn鈥檛 have to know that you鈥檝e spent the last twenty-four hours hunched over in frenzied deep-cleaning of the house. A chime from the sitting room reminds you that it is time to collect them at the bus station.
You arrive early to scrutinize their every movement as they disembark from the bus. Does he help her with her luggage? Does she let him? Are they smiling at each other when no one is looking? As they walk toward you, you note her modest black and white dress with black leggings. Nothing too trendy. It looks neither Irish nor American. Her handshake is firm in spite of her willowy frame.
On the drive to the house, the radio is off in order to maximise potential awkwardness. She handles the small talk well, and you watch him in the rear view mirror. His eyes flicker nervously between the mirror, her, and the view in front of him. He laughs at something she says, and it鈥檚 a new sound to you.
Ingredients
Your son gives her the grand tour of house. They walk past the spot where he stepped on a glass Christmas ornament warranting a trip to A&E; past the kitchen table where he did his homework, his brow furrowed behind his glasses; past the faded red chair in the sitting room where he spent his most of free time ploughing through books.
鈥淗ere is my room,鈥� he says and you remember bringing him Lemsip and soup in bed, cleaning up the stains on his pyjamas and favourite blue sheets after he got sick, and tucking the extra fluffy blanket around him on those terrible winter nights. You wonder if she brought him soup when he had that nasty cold last month or if she knows exactly how long to steep his tea and the proper amount of honey.
鈥淎nd here is the guest room where you鈥檒l be staying,鈥� he continues, a few steps farther down the hall but not far enough for your liking.
When they returned to the kitchen you hand her an apron and him a pair of gardening gloves. While she washes her hands, you put on a CD and instruct her to pull out several bowls from the cupboard as you line-up the other ingredients. Upon hearing the piano melody, her shoulders relax.
鈥淗ave you heard the version of this song with a French horn instead of a piano?鈥� She asks in a soft voice.
鈥淵ou enjoy Chopin?鈥�
鈥淓tude Number 3 in E major is one of my favourites.鈥�
鈥淢usic nerd!鈥� Your son interjects from the other room causing her cheeks to pink. You shoo him outside to weed the garden.
She waits idly by your side, like a shadow, with her hands clasped in front of her. She seems hesitant to do anything unless instructed to do so. You want her to take some charge, but then again the thought of a stranger 鈥� a girl, HIS girl 鈥� coming in and taking command of your kitchen irritates you.
You recite out loud the ingredients by memory.
4 oz of plain flour
Pinch of salt
1 egg
Half pint of milk
Small amount of butter (about two teaspoons, upon her further inquiry)
As she dips the half measuring cup into the bag of flour, she asks you about the ounces, puzzled why we aren鈥檛 using metric. You tell her it's the recipe you鈥檝e always used. She says nothing while scraping off the excess flour with a knife and overturning the cup into a sifter you鈥檝e handed her. Small piles of flour now dot your once clean counter. She cracks the handle of the sifter in a clockwise motion and a shower of flour settles into a large bowl. Without being asked, she reaches for the salt and pours a small amount into her palm before dumping it in with the flour. You allow yourself a small smile at her display of confidence. She hits an egg flat on the counter, not the edge, and breaks it open into another small bowl and gently breaks up the yolk with a fork. Your son always scrambled it to death.
鈥淗ere鈥檚 a wooden spoon to make a well,鈥� you say but she鈥檚 already dropped the egg into the well-less flour mixture.
鈥淚鈥檓 a bit sceptical about the well method. It never seems to make a difference.鈥�
You watch stunned as she reaches for the milk and slowly pours a steady stream into the bowl. She鈥檚 careful to not overbeat the batter, turning the spoon over with a flick of her wrist to fold the mixture.
鈥淚鈥檝e never not used a well. That鈥檚 how my mother taught me,鈥� you say.
Her eyes never lose focus on the bowl as she explains, 鈥淚 think the process is about slowly incorporating the liquid so the flour isn鈥檛 overwhelmed and not over-mixing the batter.鈥� Then she switches to a fork to mimic the effects of a whisk. You have a whisk but she doesn鈥檛 ask for one, so you don鈥檛 see the point.
鈥淲hen the recipe says 鈥榯o the consistency of single cream鈥�, what does that mean?鈥� she asks.
鈥淲hat does what mean?鈥�
鈥淪ingle cream. What is it?鈥�
鈥淥h, do you not have it in the US?鈥�
鈥淲e have light, regular, heavy, whipping, but nope, no single.鈥�
鈥淩ight, so then I guess single cream would be what you put into coffee. It鈥檚 lighter than double cream which is what I use for whipping or ganache.鈥�
She raises the fork out of the thin batter. An unbroken thread streams from the tines into the bowl where bubbles froth to the surface. 鈥淪o it should look like this then?鈥�
鈥淧erfect. Now we let this rest in the fridge for about half an hour,鈥� and you move to turn up the Aga. 鈥淐up of tea, dear?鈥�
鈥淵es, please, with milk if you have it.鈥�
Please and thank yous are abundant on her lips. She may be American, but at least she鈥檚 polite.
Method
When the batter is thoroughly rested, and you melt a few teaspoons of butter in the microwave. She whisks the batter with a fork until frothy once again. As you鈥檙e about to pour the melted butter into the bowl she yells, 鈥淲ait! Shouldn鈥檛 we let the butter cool a little?鈥�
鈥淲hy鈥檚 that?鈥�
鈥淭he batter is cold and might cause the butter to clump when we add it.鈥�
You laugh. You鈥檝e made this recipe hundreds of times and know that the thousands of shards of butter in the batter are harmless and will melt in the pan.
鈥淭hat鈥檚 grand. The pan still needs time to get hot,鈥� you say. Then you stick your head out the door, and call out to your son, 鈥淐ome in, love, it鈥檚 about ready.鈥�
While your son cleans up from gardening, you watch her watch him, her gaze enamoured. You pour a dab of sunflower oil into the pan and swirl it around to coat the bottom. Then you glance up and see him watching her watching you and the hot pan. He鈥檚 grinning at her fascination with the pancake process.
鈥淒o either of you want to try and make the first one or shall I demonstrate?鈥�
鈥淵ou show us how it鈥檚 done, Mum,鈥� your son says.
You ladle a small about of batter into the small pan and tilt it to spread it evenly. The scent of buttery Sunday mornings with the family envelopes the kitchen.
鈥淲atch the tiny bubbles. That鈥檚 when you know the top side is set. And now we鈥檒l check the underside鈥�,鈥� and you lift one edge with a spatula and see that it鈥檚 golden brown. 鈥淎nd here鈥檚 the tricky bit.鈥� You use the spatula to flip the entire pancake over. It catches on the edge of the pan. Every time, you think. 鈥淣o worries! The first one is always a disaster, so the chef eats that!鈥� You scoop it onto a plate. 鈥淵our turn,鈥� as you pass your son the spatula. 鈥淣ow my dear, while he does that, let me show you the toppings.鈥�
Her eyes never leave your hands as you roll a lemon on the counter under your palm before cutting it in half with a knife. A burst of citrus fills your nostrils when you give the lemon a good squeeze over the ruffled pancake. Then you sprinkle a teaspoon of sugar over it.
鈥淕ive this a try,鈥� and the fork slices effortlessly through the thin layers. After a swirl through a puddle of lemon juice and sugar, you present to her the fork. Yes, you want her to like it.
She chews slowly, her eyes closed as if see the flavours in the dark.
鈥淛ust like a cr锚pe,鈥� she decides.
鈥淣o, it鈥檚 not a cr锚pe. It鈥檚 an Irish pancake,鈥� your son retorts, rolling his eyes.
Unmoved by his rebuff, she cuts another triangle out of the pancake. She wordlessly offers the piece to him by holding up the fork near his mouth. He leans down, his hands occupied with the spatula and pan, and closes his lips around both the fork and pancake. Their eyes lock as he pulls away. He nods as he chews. 鈥淵ep. That鈥檚 a good pancake.鈥�
鈥淲ould be fantastic with some Nutella,鈥� she adds.
You remember you left the jar of Nutella that you purchased for his visit in the boot of the car, and run out to get it. From the open kitchen window you hear her ask, 鈥淪o when is it my turn with the spatula?鈥�
Quarryman
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