Red wine tastes terrible with pancakes. I’m no oenophile, but experience has taught me that it’s a bad pairing. Because sometimes, it’s 8:11 p.m., you’re sliding the spatula under the last pancake-that-was-dinner in the skillet, the sink is full of dirty dishes and it’s long past wine o’clock.
That SOB whom I like to call Old Man Winter came rushing back this week and brought with him some kind of nasty little bug. My son got on the bus, arrived at school 45 minutes later and went directly to the nurse’s office. I was just warming up my laptop to start my work day when the phone rang, bringing me the happy news.
Yes, of course he got on the bus saying that he was not feeling well, but he’s 13. I never know if the ailment is for real or if the boy has a simple case of I-want-to-go-back-to-bed-so-let’s-see-if-mom-buys-the-sick-bit. It’s a fine line. If I manage to get him to school and he’s not actually ill, he stays and accepts his defeat. If he gets there and is, in fact, really sick, I have to go retrieve him. When you roll the dice, sometimes you lose.
I’m still getting used to having a sick older kid. A sick baby or little kid is always sick. They don’t know how, nor do they want to, fake illness. It’s quite clear. One minute the child is running around like the energizer bunny on amphetamines and the next he is catatonic in front of a television that is not plugged in. There’s no need for interpretation.
Once they cross the line into adolescence, it gets a bit murky. They’ve grown accustomed to the softer mom that rides in on the sickness wave. This mom tells them not to worry about chores or schoolwork. In extreme cases, she lets them skate on toothbrushing and even condones whining. Just a little whining. Excessive whining may result in extra Nyquil in the measuring cup.
The adolescent species likes this mom. They sniff her out like a shark who smells blood. They discuss her with their friends. They learn tricks and share tips. Then they paste on the sad, sick face, a la Ferris Bueller. I’ve considered installing nanny cams — though both of my children have never even met a nanny — simply to see if he’s licking his palms when I turn my back.
But this time, it seems he was really, sincerely sick. Like, the whole box of tissues and 47 cough drops sick. The type of sick where he won’t leave the couch and the pills I used to try and get him to stay in school for a whole day don’t make a dent.
He complained that the fruit smoothie I made hurt his throat (how is that even possible?) and requested that I serve his hot tea inside the sleeping bag. I don’t know. I was hoping you had an answer for that one.
The real tragedy here is not that my oldest child was feeling awful – he’ll live – but that my oldest child is also my dishwasher. And he’s in charge of feeding the pig and dogs, emptying the garbage and helping his sister with her homework (because when 3x=15 is no longer x=5, but instead x=3+2, I’m out).
When this amazing child is down and out, someone has to pick up the slack. And that’s how I ended up serving pancakes with jam. For dinner. At 7:43 p.m. With a nice Chianti. We all learned something here.
My first attempt, a few years back, at gluten-free pancakes, resulted in a product that tasted like a compact sand patty and felt pretty much the same as it sat in your stomach. Over the years, I’ve perfected the recipe and now make fluffy and delicious batches for which my family clamors. And with the way they eat, I make a huge batch that will, in a perfect world, last all week. You can reduce the quantity to suit your needs.
Gluten-free pancakes
Yield: about 30 pancakes
Ingredients
2 cups plain yogurt
2 cups whole milk
6 eggs
2 2/3 cups Bob’s Red Mill 1 to 1 gluten free flour
1/3 cup coconut flour
1 tbsp. baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
Beat eggs into milk and yogurt. Add in and combine soda and salt. Add in flours and beat thoroughly to mix. Let sit for two to five minutes. Using a 1/4 cup measure, pour into a hot (375 degree) pan and let sit until the pancake bubbles. Flip and let cook for another minute or two. Repeat. For about an hour. And leave the wine for later. You’ll thank me.
