As you know, I've been experimenting with traditional, European peasant foods -- nowadays called, "cuisine," particularly French.
It's the daily products of a small, family farm: milk products, eggs, grains, produce.
Rarely, there's a bit of meat, stretched as far as it can go, and used to flavor the four basics listed above. The meat's generally poultry, as fowl grow faster than four-leggeds and reproduce more plentifully.
I've been making lots of crepes lately. I remember them from childhood. They take scant moments to produce, especially if I use all 3 of my eight inch cast iron skillets. Two eggs, a dab of water, a tablespoon of cream, and about half a cup of flour will render about six to eight crepes.
Well, I'm wearing my floppy-sleeved caftain this morning. It hangs over the burners as I reach for pan handles. So, rather than risk spontaneous combustion, I decided to try something different.
I melted a thin sliver of butter in one of my well-seasoned cast iron skillets, turned off the heat and let the pan cool. I preheated my oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.
I whipped up my crepe batter, but reduced the water. It made a thick batter. I added a dash of vanilla extract.
I poured the batter in the skillet and set it in the hot oven.
I started a pot of coffee, poked the fireplace coals, prepared the dishes to wash. By then, about twenty minutes, my concoction was done.
As I'd hoped, the egg had climbed the uneven surface of the skillet and made a huge, poofy cake. It was taller than the sides of the skillet and curling in on the edges, like a bowl.
It slid effortlessly out of the skillet onto a plate. I spread it with butter. I sprinkled powdered sugar on it. I squirted juice from a cut orange on it.
It's a small German pancake. It's a giant pop over.
It's spongy and fluffy, a bit crisp where it touched the pan. It's light and smooth and sweet and perfumed.
I didn't use a recipe. I just remembered what I knew about baking with eggs.
If you don't make one, you're not truly alive!
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