Across Continents

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Sourdough pancakes

A middle aged man at the back had been gently chastised for rolling up his Sourdough pancakes. Not the done thing. A few couples had drifted in, a little after eight, some with their own cherished bottles of maple syrup. I’d been drawn into the campground’s small cafe by the offer of an "All-you-can-eat" breakfast for ten bucks.

I’d waited a while for Mike to join me but he’d eventually decided to settle for his own porridge. I’d found the cafe’s warmth welcoming, the coffee aroma irresistible. Chance to fill the flask for us both. And tuck into biscuits – somewhere between bread rolls and scones – and gravy, reindeer sausage.

But their claimed piece-de-resistance were homemade Sourdough pancakes. Made from a starter – some sort of yeast affair as far as I could ascertain – first made in the forties. Nice enough I thought but no discernable hint of its purported pedigree. Seem wise to keep quiet.



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