I wouldn’t normally be working today, nor even blogging, New Year’s Day is when I make a morning-after breakfast for family, friends, blow-ins and remote acquaintances. But this year the ‘flu has flattened everyone in its path and I’m the last woman standing. Also the last woman eating. Which has left me with a long position on bacon, eggs and various other brunch-type ingredients.
Am I down-hearted? No. Actually I’m feeling rather pleased with something I just pulled out of my chef’s hat. Buttermilk banana pancakes served with grilled streaky bacon and a blueberry and raspberry kissl. Mr F, so weak he can barely lift a fork, managed to clean his plate.
The pancakes I owe to Nigella Lawson (the pre-Damascus, full-cream Nigella). Like Nigella I too often find myself with a banana de trop. But no more. Farewell to worrisome banana glut. I’d venture to say these pancakes beat even my son’s much-praised Elvis Whopper (a bacon, peanut butter and banana triple-decker sandwich) as the perfect banana vehicle.
I insist that the bacon be crispy. Take yer flabby pink Irish rashers away, if you please. They are not the right bedfellows for these pancakes. And then the kissl. Easy with the sugar. Miserly, even. The slightly tongue-puckering tartness is what brings it all together. I’m not posting the recipe. This is a literary blog. Well, kind of, usually ….
If you want a recipe I’ll send you a recipe.
So that was my day so far. That and running down to the pharmacy for Benylin, Strepsils and a cheeky little starched white cap. But enough of my husband’s Barbara Stanwyck fantasies. Happy New Year.