When I was a kid, I was pretty much a geek. At nine I started to
stutter so badly that the school put me into a class for “special”
students and my parents sent me to a psychologist. The approach
favored by the psychologist was to withhold talking until I said
something. Since I didn’t want to stutter and didn’t want to talk to
him anyway, we mostly spent 50 minutes in silence.
My father was a pragmatist which meant he figured that whatever was
was, so if I was socially awkward and stuttered, that’s who I was and
he left it at that. My mother however was an optimist. She had
proudly attended Hunter Model School in New York and felt that she was
part of the liberal intelligentsia that wouldn’t rest until the world
was cleansed of poverty, racism, sexism, and war. Reading about the
latest armed conflict in the newspaper, she would proclaim with
frustration, “Why can’t people just get along?”
Breakfast
Breakfast
Come Hungry, Leave Happy
Before there was IHOP, there was Gwynn’s.
When I was a kid in suburban Teaneck, New Jersey, it was always a treat to go for Sunday brunch with my family at Gwynn’s on Teaneck Road. Gwynn’s seemed swanky and grown-up to me. Outside, it was painted white brick, and inside it was cool and darkish, with comfy booths. My mother would order her coffee, and the cream came in tiny, glass pitchers with little round cardboard pull-tabs on top. She only used a drop and then gave me the supreme pleasure of letting me drink the rest of the cream from its miniature jar. Sometimes, if she had a second cup, I got another taste of the thick, heavenly liquid that would contribute to the need for Lipitor years later. Compared to my very picky little sister, who ate only cream cheese and jelly, I was “a good eater” with a passion for pancakes, waffles and French toast.
Then, in the mid 60’s, across town on Cedar Lane, a new place opened up, part of a chain that seemed to be popping up all over America: the International House of Pancakes. People were talking about it, and my cousins three towns away had already been to another one and were jazzed. It didn’t have Gwynn’s sophistication or my beloved mini-pots of cream, but on our first visit, I discovered silver dollar pancakes – a plateful of glorious, child-sized, golden ducats. I was hooked! Soon thereafter, chocolate chip pancakes appeared on the menu, and I became an under-age chocoholic.
Banana Walnut Pancakes
Did you ever buy some ingredient that you thought was good for you? You know what I'm talking about. Oat bran, flax, amaranth, wheat germ, teff, spelt, millet. It sounded like a good idea when you purchased it. You might even have bought it for a specific recipe. But then the inevitable. It sits in your pantry or fridge or maybe even the freezer. Then one day you are cleaning out the shelves and you come upon it. If you're lucky, it still has the label on it. Otherwise out it goes!
My weakness seems to be flax meal. I have bought it several times. I don't use it very often so I forget that I have it and I buy it again. Oops. Fortunately flax is pretty easy to use if you put your mind to it.
Flax is a seed that can be ground into meal for better digestion. It is very healthy, containing calcium, niacin, iron, phosphorus, and vitamin E. It is also rich in fiber, antioxidant lignans and Omega-3 fatty acids. It has a pleasant nutty flavor and a mucilaginous texture akin to eggs that make it a perfect ingredient when you are trying to replace eggs in a recipe. Most often I add it to granola. But I've also used it in muffins and other baked goods.
Pasteis de Belem
"I just returned from Lisbon and only have one thing to say - Belem Pasteis de Nata"
Thanks
to a reader for reminding me of what is the can't miss taste of Lisbon.
While there are wonderful wines, tasty sausages, perfect cups of
espresso and crispy salt cod fritters that all deserve your attention,
you haven't truly experienced Lisbon until you have made it through the
winding labyrinth of the cafe and bakery, Pasteis de Belem, in a pretty waterfront neighborhood of Lisbon and had a few fresh warm pastries.
Waffling
The Waffle House is sort of the unofficial flower of the Southern
Interstate exit. Driving North from the Gulf Coast on I-65 for the past
two years, I have seen the yellow signs blossoming in hamlets from
Alabama to Kentucky, and been intrigued, imagining fluffy waffles with
real syrup, folksy waitresses with coffee pots, and an enlightening
cross section of humanity. My path to Waffle Nirvana was blocked only
by my mother, who has a phobia about unclean public bathrooms which I
believe is a gene-linked trait in Jewish women of her generation.
Having been a teacher, she is able to “hold it” like a camel retains
water in the desert, but during the long trip home from Florida she
insists, not unreasonably, that we choose lunch stops at restaurants
where she can use the restrooms without sedation.
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