The Story of the Pancake

It’s easy, right? Eggs, flour, milk, some sparkling water, a little salt, butter and, if you are like me, Nutella. That is pretty much all you need to make and enjoy a decent pancake.

It all started as a child’s dream

As a child, I don’t remember to have had lots of pancakes. It’s tedious, I would think. Why spend two hours standing and flipping, when you can just bake something at once and enjoy it a few days? I am sure this is what my grandma or mum were thinking, while not making pancakes.

It went on as student’s food

When I went to study in Bucharest I felt the need to balance the inconvenience of not having had enough pancakes growing up. So all I ate was pancakes. Truth be told, it wasn’t just my fault. Cristina, my room mate and partner in crime, supported, hell, she embraced this … pancake dictatorship. This is the moment when I realised I like hot, just off the pan, pancakes. We used Finetti spread (Finetti is Nutella’s Romanian sister) and drank lot of Pepsi. With this sugar overdose on board, no wonder we were terrorising neighbours with giggles and some other … unlady-like behaviour of which I will say no more.

Time passed by, I have lived in many places and have shocked the audience with my lack of skills in the kitchen everywhere. To that shock, followed another one, when I’d say “Does anyone want pancakes? Yes, I know how to make them and yes, they taste good.” So, in the future, if you will think I cannot cook or bake anything, I will throw a pancake in your face, mmk?

Then it turned into a welcome cake

That is pretty much what I did while working at Airbus. It was a custom that people were bringing some sort of cake for their birthday or special occasions. It wasn’t my birthday, but I had just gotten the job there. People, few who knew me, were already grinning at the idea that I’d have to bake something. When I told them I will make pancakes at the office, they laughed in my face. I brought two pans and loads of Nutella and transformed a Friday afternoon in the office kitchen into a celebration. Should have seen their faces waiting in line, plate in their hands, just like little children waiting to tell Santa they had been good and deserved presents. My boss included.

I think it would be ok now if I’d crown myself queen of pancakes, wouldn’t it?

And now it’s routine

The funniest most beautiful thing about pancakes is that, after having made so many of them, somebody finally made some for me. Even more so, I got to experience the waking up in that delicate smell on a Saturday morning. Just like that, for no reason whatsoever, he made pancakes. For me. Thank you, Alin, for showing me how love smells!