BREAKFAST GRUB - PANCAKES, FRENCH TOAST, HASH BROWNS

Pancakes

1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
3 ½ teaspoons baking powder
1 tablespoon white sugar
¼ teaspoon salt
1 ¼ cups milk
3 tablespoons melted butter or vegetable oil
1 egg

Sift flour, baking powder, sugar, and salt together in a large bowl. Make a well in the center and add milk, melted butter, and egg; mix until smooth.
Heat a lightly oiled griddle or pan over medium-high heat. Pour or scoop the batter onto the griddle, using approximately 1/4 cup for each pancake; cook until bubbles form and the edges are dry, about 2 to 3 minutes. Flip and cook until browned on the other side. Repeat with remaining batter.

French Toast
⅔ cup milk
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
dash of salt 
6 slices bread

1 tablespoon unsalted butter, or more as needed

Gather all ingredients.
Whisk milk, eggs, vanilla, and salt together in a shallow bowl.
Lightly butter a griddle or skillet and heat over medium-high heat.
Dunk bread in the egg mixture, soaking both sides.
Transfer to the hot skillet and cook until golden, 3 to 4 minutes per side.
Serve hot with butter, powdered sugar and fruit

Hash Brown Potatoes

Peel a brown russet potato
Shred it with a grater
Heat two tablespoons of oil in a heavy fry pan, get it nice and hot
Squeeze extra moisture out of potatoes and put them in the hot oil, spread thinly
Shake a good amount of salt and pepper over the spuds
When the bottom is light brown (lift it with a spatula and peek), flip it in the oil
Cook till both sides are crispy brown on the outside
Eat!
(These will generally take 10-15 minutes to cook, depending on how big your potato is and how big your pan is. Most people don't cook their hash browns long enough.)

WOTD 39- FRENCH

I wrap my fingers into the edge of the metal handle attached to the wooden door on my Sub-Zero fridge. It requires intentional strength to pull the door open, the air suctioning the cold inside. Finally it gives way and the door swings out, revealing layer on layer of leftovers stacked in Rubbermaid containers, two gallons of 1% milk, a carafe of orange juice and six pounds of butter. We have our priorities around here. I grab three brown eggs from their scooped cradles inside the door, and one of the jugs of milk. With eggs in one hand, and milk in the other, I kick the fridge door shut. I can hear the air sucking inside, like the thing has lungs. I set the milk on the counter and open the maple cupboard door to the right of the sink, lifting a vegetable bowl and pushing some dirty dishes off to the side making room on the counter near the sink. I set the bowl on the cold granite and tap one of the eggs against the stone. I lift the cracked egg with the flow of a conductor raising her baton for the upbeat, stretch my thumb and ring finger away from each other while still gripping the shell. The egg gives way and divides itself. I raise my hand again and let the liquid, all jelly like with a golden orb in the middle, fall into the vegetable bowl. As I repeat the process on the second egg I reach behind me, pulling on the wooden handle of the utensil drawer, and retrieve, without looking, a fork. I whip the eggs in a rolling motion, the yellow-gold swirling into the gelatin white. Soon it is all a frothy pale yellow. I place the bowl next to the sink, lift the gallon of milk over it, and pour a few tablespoons into the whipped eggs. As I continue to whip, my hand reaches into the narrow spice cupboard to the left of the stovetop. A waft of miscellaneous fragrance floats out as my hand reaches in, past the bottles of sage and cinnamon. It comes out victorious, with a bottle of Mexican vanilla. Still whipping, I tip the bottle and allow two drops to fall into the eggs.

At the stove I bend over, way to the bottom roll-out shelf, and pull out the square griddle. As my left hand places the griddle on the burner, the right hand twists the ignition knob. A yellow blue flame leaps out around the edges of the griddle, then settles into a slow steady hiss as the griddle heats up. I dip a knife into the ceramic container of butter, the one we bought in England years ago. The rectangular terra cotta butter box says Original Suffolk Butter Box – for Home or Safari. I slide the chunk of butter from my knife and lift the pan, watching the creamy oil disappear as it slides, singing, over the hot griddle.

Grandma Sycamore bread: soft, white substantial, fiberless and delicious. I pull it from the bread drawer, untwist the tie, and pull out four pieces. Fork in one hand, I dip the bread, a piece at a time, into the egg mixture, shake it two times and then place it on the griddle, one lined up next to the other. I have an instinct about things on the stove. When my cooking angel tells me, I slide the edge of a spatula under one of the pieces and flip it onto the opposite side of the griddle where the butter has turned brown, smells yummy delicious, right there on the edge of burnt. I listen to the egg sizzle for just a moment, then silently heat the mixture infused in the bread until it is slightly firm, the outer skin of the bread looking all golden brown and mottled. I slide the slices onto a plate from the cupboard, spread a generous chunk of butter atop and move it across the landscape of the toast until it looks like a golden swampy earth spot in early spring when the snows have melted. Atop the pond I sprinkle soft, virgin powdered sugar, straight from the bag, the sweetness falling like snow from heavy evergreen branches.

It is early morning, on a test day, and my boy or my girls scurry down the stairs. I bless the food myself, asking the Lord to help them recall what they’ve learned. I pour a cup of juice and set it before them. They inhale the toast and drink the juice down in three swallows; grab their books, call out a “Thanks, Mom”, and (depending on the child) slip over to the stove to give me a hug or a kiss. Then they are off to school.

In the fresh cold silence of my kitchen I find there is just enough egg mixture left in the bottom of the vegetable bowl for maybe one slice for myself. I dip the soft white bread in and slide it around like a dinner roll in the last trails of gravy on a Thanksgiving plate. It’s not quite enough to cover all the bread, but I make it anyway. Sit at the counter by my lonesome and sprinkle powdered sugar on top. Soft, white, sweet and buttery powdered sugar on top of French Toast.