Remember the salad I made last week? The recipe originally called for bulgur, but I didn’t have any so I tried to use cracked wheat. But the cracked wheat cooked up kind of mushy, so I called my friend and she said bulgur and cracked wheat were basically the same thing but that bulgur was precooked. So I put the mushy cracked wheat in the refrigerator and switched to quinoa for the salad and all was well.

Saturday morning came and with it an urge for pancakes. Saturday mornings are supposed to be lazy, slow affairs punctuated with multiple cups of coffee and a carb-heavy kick-off. Or is that Sunday morning? Not sure on that one, but in either case, I’m a failure. The first weekend day, my husband is raring to jump into his projects, and the second one, we’re trying to get out the door without killing each other. So I usually dump granola in bowls and call it good.

But this Saturday morning was different. My husband was chomping at the bit even more than normal: he had a hot date with three other guys to get those panels on the roof right after lunch and there was lots of prep work to do. But I had time and a fair bit of energy despite my sore throat and head cold. I could handle standing by the stove with a spatula in my hand, I decided. Plus, that cooked cracked wheat was begging to be dealt with.

Intermission: solar panels
My husband submitted an application for a grant and we were accepted. The whole project is supposed to be done before Christmas so now he’s running around like crazy, punching holes in walls and ceilings, moving the freezers around, zipping up and down ladders. It kind of gives me a headache (but I’m not complaining).

Saturday was the big Haul The Lunkers Up On The Roof Day. The guys got it done in an hour and a half, no sweat.

The hardest part (from my perspective) (and from my husband’s, he just informed me) was keeping my littlest from going up on the roof with them.

See these two guys sitting pretty in the sky with my husband?

These are the guys my husband spends his days with. The one up higher is the boss, and the one down lower joined up with them a couple years ago. There’s so much I could say about these guys—like how the one enjoys throwing rocks at the porta-potty when my husband is inside it, or how the other rides his bike everywhere, two kitty litter buckets attached to either side, saddlebag fashion—but I’ll spare you all the gory details and give you two little tidbits instead:

Tidbit One: a couple days ago, the bearded guy called me to talk bread. He’d gotten some of my starter and was getting ready to wake it up and go to Baking Town but first had some questions regarding wheat and such. He hasn’t made a peep about the bread since then, so maybe it flopped and he’s not telling me because he doesn’t want to give me a sourdough starter complex?

Tidbit Two: When I walked out of the house to take pictures of the whole operation, Boss Man accosted me with a “Hey, Jennifer. I need a good gluten-free granola recipe. Do you have one?” I went back in the house and emailed him what I had, and the next afternoon I got a reply email: “Thanks Jennifer,  Here goes!” I haven’t heard a peep out of him since then, so maybe it went downhill?

My point: I’m surrounded by guys that bake.
My other point: my husband works with guys that willingly, graciously, generously come out to our house in the middle of their Saturday to help with our project.
My final point: I’m glad the panels are on the roof.

P.S. I spent this intermission mostly talking about my husband’s co-workers, but my brother also busted up his Saturday and put his life on the line (i.e. his butt on our roof) for our solar project. You should know, since we’re talking about bread and bikes and such, that my brother bakes with ease, and he rides his bike to work, too.

End of intermission and back to the pancakes.

I took Luisa’s Oatmeal Pancake recipe (that I’d already made once before), did some swapping and substituting, and came up with a splendiferous Saturday (or Sunday) morning pancake: hearty and filling, with a delightfully nutty texture from the cracked wheat.

The kids, however, took a few bites and eyed their pancakes suspiciously. They said things like, What’s in these, Mama? And, I like the other kind better. They ate them then, but there was no pigging out. I bagged up the leftovers and stuck them in the freezer.

I eat a pancake each morning for my breakfast. I heat the pancake in the microwave and then top it with a dab of butter and a glug of syrup. I cut my cake into small pieces with my fork, and swirl each bite over the plate to mop up the syrup drips. Chewing slowly, contemplatively, I savor the complex textures, the depth of flavor. I’ve actually become rather protective of my pancake stash.

And wouldn’t you know, now all my mornings feel like Saturday morning!

(Just kidding. It seemed like the appropriate ending, though, so I had to say it.)

Cracked Wheat Pancakes
Adapted from Luisa’s blog The Wednesday Chef, and she, in turn, got it from Kim Boyce’s book Good to the Grain (that I ordered last night!)

Updated February 2016: I make this recipe frequently, subbing leftover cooked oatmeal for the cooked cracked wheat. I also omit the white flour and use all freshly-ground whole wheat pastry flour. A double batch makes enough to feed six people.

1 cup whole wheat or spelt flour
3/4 cup white flour
2 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
3/4 teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons butter, melted
1 1/4 cups buttermilk (or regular milk)
1 cup cooked cracked wheat (see below)
1 tablespoon molasses
2 eggs, beaten

In a large bowl, stir together the dry ingredients. Add the wet ingredients and stir lightly to combine. The batter will be thick.

Fry the pancakes, making sure to spread the batter out with the back of the ladle as soon as it hits the hot skillet. Serve with butter and syrup.

to cook the cracked wheat:
Place one cup of cracked wheat in a small saucepan and cover with 1 1/4 cups water. Bring to a gentle boil, stirring once or twice. Reduce the heat to low and simmer without stirring, uncovered, for about 15 minutes, or until all the water has evaporated. Fluff with a fork.

This same time, years previous: gingerbread men

*a walk around the property in the gloaming in which my daughter introduces me to one of their woodsy hideaways
*this favorite dress-up gown gets some pretty heavy usage
*look at me, look at me, look at me go! I’m a five needle knitter now!
*constructing a fort
*inside the fort
*baby sweetness: we took care of her for about 8 hours one day and when I woke up the next morning, my first coherent thought was: I miss her.
*the only drawback to having a baby in the house: EVERYONE WANTS TO HOLD HER ALL THE TIME, so at bedtime I sneak her up to my room where I get to have her all to myself.
*cousins: pouring over a book of cartoons
*a growth spurt: I bought him these sweat pants last fall
*the warmest spot in the house, these chilly winter mornings. (The sleepwalking saga continues. Saturday night, my husband and I were watching a movie on the couch when she started coming down the stairs. My husband hurried to intercept her—didn’t want her to get a good gander at our movie and popcorn and start the no-fair wail—but her eyes grew round as saucers and stared blankly, she started breathing fast, almost a shallow gasping, and her body went rigid. It was straight out of a horror movie—a zombie entering our midst. Freaked us both out, it did.)
*mini peppermint whoopie pies: her choice of Christmas cookies (they may be my favorite—it’s this recipe, but with about 2 cups of Andes Peppermint Crunch baking chips added to the icing)
*rooftop bottoms: our solar panels are up! (And soon to be functioning.)
*kitchen windows at night

This same time, years previous: Sunday Vignettes: Human Anatomy, cashew brittle

We hardly ever go on family outings to restaurants, movies, plays, or parties, so an evening at the theater was a honkin’ huge deal. It would be the first time my two littlest ones had been to the Blackfriars and anticipation ran high.

Town clothes (we are so Laura Ingalls) were brought downstairs and stacked on the table. Baths were taken. The house was (kind of) straightened. Sandwiches were made. Water bottles were filled. Coats were put on. The wood stove was filled up and banked. Once everyone was loaded into the car, I handed out the bologna sandwiches (a favorite treat) and off we went, munching happily and listening as Tim Curry recounted A Series of Unfortunate Events though the car speakers.

We thought we were arriving in plenty of time to get good seats. Since it was a pay what you will night, being at the head of the line was of utmost importance. But alas, twenty minutes before the doors opened, there was already a bubbling crowd milling around in the cold, so we joined the line (that wasn’t visible to everyone, boo) and huddled close. When the doors finally opened we pressed forward as politely as possible and jostled our way through the lobby to the next door where we had to wait for another half hour. We weren’t at the head of the line, but I was close enough to overhear the usher telling some people that most of the downstairs seats were reserved. The stools on the stage weren’t taken, nor were the three rows at the back, but the balcony was up for grabs. I started to feel discouraged. We’d get bad seats and all the hype would be for nothing, bah humbug. Oh well, we’d do the best we could. I whispered instructions to my husband to go left and save us six seats—I would scurry to the front to see if I could find anything better.

Then the doors opened and everyone made a mad rush for the seats at the back while I walked straight on to the stage and claimed six stools! (Well, five—another kid slipped in with us and snagged a stool before the kids could plunk their butts down, so I had to hold my baby who is not a baby on my lap.) The place was packed—standing room only and people got turned away at the door—and there we were on the stage. All my bent-up tension and anxiety melted away as I absorbed my good fortune and settled in for the show. (Confession: a girl, probably a college student, tried to snag on of our stools as I was in the process of claiming them but I said, “I’m sorry, there’s six of us.” Her shoulder slumped as she turned away, defeated. I still feel kind of bad about it.) (But not bad enough to give up my seat.) (So much for a generous Christmas spirit.)

I had been carrying a large canvas tote with our blankets (for in the car) and my knitting (for the long wait, but that I couldn’t do because there was no space) and some games that we were going to play while we waited (again, didn’t happen), and we soon realized that it made a perfect little seat for Nickel when it was plopped on the floor between our seats and piled high with our coats.Which was a relief since that boy is no lightweight.

The play was fabulous. Bob Cratchit plunked his top hat on Nickel’s head and asked me to hold his scarf. The narrator pulled candy canes out of his hat and gave them to the kids while singing Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire. The Ghost of Christmas Past, a sprightly, giggling actress all done up in white and glitter, asked Sweetsie to hold her wand. Sweetsie smiled shyly and took it, her eyes a-sparkle. Pure magic, it was! (Later my oldest daughter recounted the moment. “She was so close, I could smell her!” “Did she stink?” I asked, thinking of unwashed costumes and all the dancing. “No!” she sighed dreamily. “She smelled so good!”)

But Marley, oh Marley! He scared my girls to pieces, jumping up at the window like that, his black face painted white, his eyes popping out of his head. And when he came up through the hole in the floor, chains a-rattling, drums banging, roaring and hollering and wailing, and then lunged at Scrooge (who was standing right beside us so it felt like he was coming straight at us), screaming, eyes rolling, the chains snapping him back, oh my. The three youngest kids were definitely not prepared. They sat there, shoulders hunched and fingers in their ears, completely horrified, terrified, petrified, and unable to move. It was spectacular.

After that, my oldest daughter begged to sit between me and my husband. I told her she could sit in her papa’s lap if she got scared again. “Really? In the middle of the play?” she asked, alarmed about breaching theater etiquette. So when the shrouded Ghost of Christmas Future floated out, I tapped her on the shoulder and she zipped over to his lap while Sweetsie ducked under my arm and covered her face with her hands, and my husband and I laughed.

My husband and I weren’t the only ones finding the children’s terror delightfully hilarious—I could see other people pointing at the girls and laughing. And when I got home, I found an email (from a friend I didn’t know was there) that said: It’s fun to watch your kids react to the show. Don’t drop that wand!

Nickel did pretty good for his first theater production, especially considering that the majority of the event took place long after his bedtime. He got bored (seriously?) and kept saying he was hungry and thirsty. But he (mostly, sorta) whispered his complaints into my ear, and we never had to take him out, hallelujah.

I had packed a special bedtime snack for the ride home—donuts and little bottles of chocolate milk. (When Sweetsie discovered them in the fridge the morning after my late-night shopping trip, she yipped for joy and hollered to her siblings, “Hey guys! Mama bought cold hot chocolate!”) Huddled in the car, the hot air blasting out the vents, the kids slurped down the milk and then fell asleep before finishing their donuts. So this morning we slept in and had leftover donuts and shots of cold hot chocolate (my lactose-intolerant husband didn’t drink his allotted bottle) with our breakfast oatmeal.

I asked Sweetsie if she’d like to go see the play again. She thought for a minute and then said, “I don’t know, maybe. I might get used to it the second time.” When I asked my other girl the same question, her reply was an emphatic, “No way!” My son, on the other hand, is very happy that we are scheduled to usher for the play next week.

Me, too. I’m excited already.

This same time, years previous: zippy me, peanut butter cookies, Ree’s monkey bread, butter cookies