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E is for Earl’s Pancakes

I did not know I had so much to say about my parents before I started this blogging challenge. EFunny how things just come out sometimes.

Earl was my dad. I got my belly laugh from him. And my sturdy calves, at least according to my sister.

I don’t remember Dad cooking a whole lot. I know he would come home late from shift work at Benson Mines and eat milk toast or sardines on crackers. I know he had a fondness for creamed chipped beef on toast, also known as Shit on a Shingle, but I don’t know that he ever cooked it for himself.

But Dad was famous for his pancakes. The sweet aroma of the cakes on the griddle mingled with the seductive scents of frying bacon and brewing coffee (and, most likely, cigarettes). There was no greater sense of contentment, as a child, than lying on the front porch, warm in the sun, reading the Sunday funny papers while pleasantly full of pancakes that had been smothered in maple syrup. (Real maple syrup was a right, not a privilege.)

If you want to recreate that Sunday morning euphoria, I’ve included the recipe. I haven’t made them myself with bacon fat, but that’s a challenge I’m willing to accept. They’re much better than any boxed pancake mix, and I’m fairly certain I’ve always added too many blueberries. That’s my approach to life: too many blueberries, why not?

pancakes

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