Rapscallion... pancakes, and post-prandial prandium

I have dubbed these rapscallion pancakes because they were moderately more finicky than I expected them to be. First of all, the recipe warned me that the batter would be thin... and it was. REALLY thin. The pancakes flowed so quickly, despite the fact that my pan was very hot, that the first couple ended up as thin layers of eggy, crepe-style pancakes that were difficult to flip because even my finely chopped carrot chunks were so thick that they couldn't be properly embedded in the pancake.

I tossed in some whole wheat flour, a bit more, in retrospect, than was prudent, but that yielded a more substantial, chewier pancake. Additionally, despite my cutting out a half-teaspoon of salt, they were still too heavy on the stuff. Next time--because they were good enough despite all this to merit a next time--I'll decrease the salt even more, add extra (but less extra) whole wheat flour, and maybe add onions or extra scallions. As far as the dipping sauce, I deviated by adding a touch of powdered garlic and some chopped fresh ginger to sit in it for awhile before dipping the pancakes in it. Is ginger addictive*? If so, I've got it bad.

And now, the St. Louis butter cake. We finished just around midnight, surprisingly early. It's probably due to the thin metal pan (rather than Pyrex or somewhat) that decreased the baking time to 30 from about 45 minutes, plus some well-managed time. We replaced the corn syrup in the topping with honey, crystals of which I assiduously dissolved for fear that the topping would get gritty. It imparted a very mild honey flavor, and since corn syrup is evil and what the hell else am I going to use it for, I think I'll just stick to replacing it with honey if I make this cake again.


Of course, as soon as we finish eating and I have a slice of the cake for dessert, one of our housemates walks in and offers us a surprise that he picked up at the grocery store: duck eggs! I excitedly took the package... and discovered that one of the four eggs was crushed in on one side. I sent Andy upstairs to fetch my lone ramekin ("What's a ramekin?!?"), cupping the egg in one hand as the white began to leak over my fingers (not an unpleasant sensation, actually) and putting the kettle on to boil some water. I then, still one-handed, buttered the ramekin, poured in the duck egg, set it in a pan half-full of boiled water, and popped it in the oven at 375. Result: shirred duck egg with toast, which I sprinkled with thyme and Tony Chachere's. After dinner. What would the hobbits call that one?

Andy, upon tasting some egg-drenched toast: "My god, it's like butter!" Like buttah, I tell you. Like buttah.

The only downside, aside from my unfortunate caloric intake today that I can only hope is balanced by the over two hours of walking I did, is that I burned the crap out of my hand my intelligently grabbing the inside of the oven to stabilize myself as I unfolded myself, ramekin in hand, from my squatting position in front of the oven.

*Yes, I did look up the definitions of addictive and addicting, just to check, before using that word.