If I had a superpower, it would be rationalizing. Did you find a pair of boots that you love but they’re wildly expensive? Text me and I will tell you about the only time in my life I have splurged on boots and how lovely they are. We’re you having a nostalgic conversation with a friend about boxed macaroni and cheese and now you’re craving it? I say you’re basically obligated to reunite with it once in a while as an adult for, like, reassessment. But that’s my base level of rationalizing; what I did last weekend was Olympic.
Despite the story the archives will tell you, I only make those ladle and flip (and flip and repeat until you’re not even sure you want pancakes anymore) style of flapjacks once in a while. I’m just not that ambitious/functional at the hours in which my kids insist I should be awake. When the urge, guilt, whatever, strikes to be that cool parent who makes pancakes on the weekends and not just to Instagram it, more often than not I make a big Dutch baby instead — you know, those loupy, bronzed, crepe-like pancake showoffs. You almost definitely already have the ingredients on hand, you can whisk the ingredients with a fork and all the magic happens hands-off, in the oven — it’s win-win.
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