I’m glad Mozart wrote music to eat pancakes by.
I know he did, because that’s what George usually puts on when I have peppered bacon warming in the oven and pancakes crisping in the pan. It’s our once-a-week treat. The food, that is. I admit that Mozart finds his way to our table fairly often.
On this day, the sun hadn’t been up long enough to hike the temps much beyond 30 degrees. The wind kicked up a fuss, tossing fallen leaves in little swirling storms across our lawn. Crows and bluejays screeched in the trees, hurrying up the peanut handouts they get each day.
The beagle was hovering underfoot, ever hopeful, even though she never gets tidbits while I’m cooking. I mixed some Bisquick, a handful of old-fashioned oats, and a generous sprinkling of ground flax seed, along with milk, an egg, a little lemon flavoring and sliced strawberries, frozen from last spring’s crop. The mixture is thick and so are the pancakes.
A European friend once discussed pancakes with me.
“Ours aren’t those thick things Americans eat,” she said. She should see mine.
George poured the orange juice, then set the table while I cooked, adding real butter and locally produced maple syrup. Mozart continued to flow through the house as we slid into our chairs, said grace, and dug in.
A warm, hearty breakfast seems to go with the crisping days of autumn and the frigid days of winter that will follow. They speak of comfort, as do the thick soups, the fireplace fires, fleece-lined slippers and handmade afghans tucked around knees in the evenings.
Mozart, of course, is good for any season.