The Taste of Powerlessness

Power brings with it many things, depending on the circumstances: responsibility, access, self-multipication, a feeling of overwhelming strength and invulnerability. But then something happens. You blow out your knee. You overstep your bounds, bringing upon you and your family the swift vengeance of a Don, or a Ghengis. You lose the ability to keep perishable foodstuffs cold. Sometimes, what we do when we lose our power is more important, and greater evidence of our character, than how much of it we have in the first place.

So when the spring-meets-summer winds clashed and ravaged southeastern Michigan this past week, rendering my host's home without electricity for four days, I had a decision to make. Do I go out for breakfast? Or do I enjoy my morning ritual of combined cereal in an oversized bowl, only this time, [gasp], without the milk? Let me breakdown for you the consequences of that meteorological disaster.

Day 1: The evening before, our power had gone out. In times past the problem out there in ElectricityLand was fixed within one score hours. Knowing this, I awoke to a note saying, among other things, "and try not to open the fridge," and immediately opened the fridge. My Cinnamon Toast Crunch + Raisin Bran Crunch + Life needed their Skim, and I, my daily allotment of pasturization. Anyway, the power would go back on within the day, I told myself, and all foods would remain chilled. I was not without sensitivity: I opened and closed with great haste. The cereal that morning was fine, if laced with a tinge of guilt, sticky and cloying in the back of my throat.

Day 2: Power still out. This time, the threat was not a seeping out of all-important cold air keeping our cottage cheese curdled but once and our processed cheese solid. Instead the milk itself had been compromised--over 40 hours of lingering refridgeration can keep a gallon only so pourable. This morning's warning was more specific, even in its unwritten, assumed state: "Don't eat anything from the fridge." A case could be made for the blackberry jam (it's mostly sugar and pectin anyway) and perhaps the spicy brown mustard (if anything, it'll be more spicy!) but the edibility of the milk was not in question.

And yet. I opened the fridge and grabbed that milk by the handle. I took a smaller bowl, somehow thinking the lesser volume would save me from the miniscule creatures swimming through the lukewarm kiddie cow pool, and splashed an inch into the bottom. After placing the milk back into the impotent Sub-Zero (no need to let it lose its lukeness), I poured the cereal over the milk. Why, I don't know, but this reversal in order of operation lessened, in my mind, the likelihood that my stomach would grow angry and convulsive after absorbing its morning medicine. Just in case, and since I needed more moisture for even distribution, I added tap water over the cereal, making the "mil-ter" that rose halfway up the see-through bowl the color of paint thinner. Of all the cereals, the Life morsels took most poorly to the change, being more prone to mushiness than that of the heartier "Crunch" varietals. Still, the end result was satisfying enough.

Day 3: The energy people have told us not to expect power until at least the following midnight. For fear of lumps dropping over my cereal and ruining the flake-to-raisin ratio, I did not risk using the Skim. Water fell into my bowl like blood running from the throats of the accidentally massacred. I am tired of compromising my breakfast.

Day 4: Last evening, on the way home from my sister's house, where my niece and nephew basked in the glory of their ice-cold sippy cups and thier Tivo'ed Nickelodeon (An impromptu rationale: what is breastmilk, if not milk left unrefridgerated for days?), I stopped on a whim and bought a pint of Cookies 'n Cream ice cream. My birthday cake leftovers could wait no longer; they needed the appropriate side dish. So what if it would melt in a few hours' time? I was sick of eating in the soft glow of oil lamps. I needed something to make me forget.

The next morning, that pint of soupy ice cream sat on the granite counter-top, morning light gleaming through drops of condensation coating the paper container. The fridge was now left open and emptied. Alternatives were legion: oatmeal, skillet toast, a choice of diners within five miles on all sides. But I needed my cereal. Another morning of water-moistened flakes might break me. Then I saw the ice cream. Or, rather, what used to be ice cream, but what was now a thick, slightly chunky-but-still-definable-as-liquid, settled into the bottom of that pint. I shook out my cinnamony, raisiny, life-y concoction. And then I spooned that melted ice cream over my dry cereal in a manner appropriating baptism. I spilled it carefully and evenly. The dark cookie chunks that settled on top? A necessary, if chocolatey, evil. I rinsed over them with a few seconds of recalibrating tap water, the better to stretch out the slightly foamy dairy product as the moistening agent it pretended to be.

After a few swirls and mixings, I was ready to dig in. I rose a spoon of cereal into my mouth. Before it even hit the tongue I could smell the sweet cream and vanilla bouquet. When finally my mouth took the offering, after four days of meager approximations, of false promises and tainted attempts, it remembered what it had been missing since last Saturday, nay, since the last twenty-seven years, as I had never switched the normal "milk" with the more ambitious, but now oh-so-obvious substitute of "milk+sugar+cream+flavorings." Finally, when all seemed hopeless, a long-forgotten hero rose from the depths of obscurity and into the cereal-filled bowl of my morning meal, causing stomach-lined euphoria in one very satiated breakfast'er.

In fact, the bowl as a whole was quite rich. I don't recommend it every day. But, if you find yourself without power and, on that fourth day, you need your daily dose, don't hesitate in re-using the previous evening's ice cream to pour over your cereal. Life (and power line vulnerability) is uncertain--Eat dessert first.

How to Cut a Pancake

The first time I went to a good breakfast place, I was young and finicky in my tastes. Plastered all over that laminated menu were options worthy of a king's gastric acid: fluffy three egg omelettes, cheese blintzes, fruit-filled crepes, and pancakes--oh, were there pancakes. Buttermilk pancakes, multi-grain oat cakes, chocolate chip pancakes, blueberry pancakes, Swedish pancakes, something called "The Mother Load," and something else, called the Big Apple, which was less pancake than an apple-cinnamony pastry fit for a giant's hands. But I didn't know that yet. All I knew was that I didn't know what it was, which meant it scared me. All of them did. So I asked the only suitable question one can ask when approached by a stranger in a mauve apron carrying a notepad, ready to jot down your every desire. Maybe the pressure of such unfamiliar opportunity made me crack. Because then I said: "What kind of cereal do you have?"

My friend and his dad who took us both laughed. When I waited earnestly to hear the list of boxed dry cereals they had on offer, they realized mine was not a joke, but an honest request. My friend kept laughing. His dad pointed to the menu in front of me, as if to say, "No, they have real food here, look." But I didn't know what I wanted. No--I did know. I wanted Frosted Flakes. My friend's dad saved me from myself.

"He'll have the silver dollar pancakes." And they were good. Not grrrrreat!, but good. I still had a long way to go.

I remember this now and, like my generous hosts then, laugh, but more than that marvel at how far I've come (or how little I inched out of my comfort zone so long ago). I almost pity my former, cereal-requesting self. This isn't even what I wanted to share with you (and when I say you, this isn't some plural usage of the word, to stand in for the nonexistent English variant of the word 'you' that involves multiple people.... no, I am speaking to you, that one person who might be reading this, which, more likely than not, is in fact me.) (Speaking of which: Boy do you have nice hair.) But the story seemed like appropriate introduction to this, my first in a series of posts explaining How To...

...

How To Cut a Pancake (large version*)

Difficulty level: 3
Required skill-set: Low
Ratio of effort to results: 1/5

First, (1) slice into vertical strips, making sure to leave one half fully intact. Make cuts the width of your choice. (see Fig.1 below)
Personally, I like a pretty thin strip. The more cross-section space available, the more potential syrup-saturation you will have. Pancakes are like forests: The border areas are their most vital, active regions. Much like the deer that congregate along the perifery of woodlands, so, too, does the syrup soak into and rest along the edges of the cut 'cake. If you are a syrup junky like myself, I suggest you use this to your advantage.

Pour syrup over slices as you wish and eat.

Then, (2) slice your remaining half into horizontal strips. Why the change in direction? Since now the middle of the whole pancake is a new edge, if you cut perpendicularly from this new, longest side, you will allow yourself more total strips. Each will be shorter, but the resultant gaps between each section of pancake provides more syrup pooling to occur, good for both second-chance dipping and the aforementioned border-soak. Also: By leaving one half intact while eating the first half, your remaining 'cake retains more of its own heat than if sliced all at once. As good as these borders are for capturing flavor, they also allow the natural heat from cooking to escape, thus making for a colder, less satisfying second half experience.

If you have leftover syrup not absorbed into the pancake (3), you can either use the sugary puddles as a nice, prelaid foundation for your second serving, or next time be sure to adjust your pour.

Overall, this technique requires a modicum of patience, and an open mind, but fulfills the potential of a pancake through the use of simple, conscientious decision-making. May your 'cakes stay warm and syrupy.

*If you prefer Silver Dollar, or smaller, pancakes, I can not help you here. My cutting technique is reserved for the large, almost-plate sized versions which I prefer, and which you'll find at most diners or reputable breakfast joints. Quick hint: If you can place your closed fist over the pancake and not see the 'cake anymore, yours are of the small variety. Now, use that fist and punch yourself in the thigh, not hard enough to do any irreversible damage but enough to form a small bruise, so you'll remember your mistake and, hopefully, not repeat it.