Mama G has been churning out flapjacks regularly for 35 years and counting – mainly for a captive audience of 6 with surplus friends and family appearing here and there from time to time to challenge her skills. Editor’s note: we’re obviously talking about the American variety here – British flapjacks are another beast entirely (oat-y squares). And this just in from Wikipedia, a flapjack is also a professional wrestling throw, aka the pancake slam. Perhaps today’s Garvin kid activity at the beach? Hmmmm.
The woman knows what she’s doing and almost wept when it was recently suggested that her vintage Farberware electric griddle (borrowed from my grandmother summer after summer for years on end) had maybe, possibly (I said maybe!) been volunteered for an encaustic art project involving melted wax. You can guess where that wax was going to melt. On the Ginster’s prized pancake maker.
Mom’s pancakes are consistently delicious but sometimes magic happens and we all arrive together at a little place called pancake nirvana. This past Sunday my sisters and I sat at the kitchen counter of our tacky Floridian beach house and devoured every last bite of the steaming, nutty, wheat-germ-laced, blueberry-stuffed wonders with abandon. Heaven on earth.