Leek-Sorrel Pancakes

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I made pancakes for breakfast every morning of seventh grade. They were Bisquick, actually. Were there other types of pancakes?  Nope.  The noun “pancakes” meant three of my six-inch exemplars sans syrup—butter only.  Around the same time I realized that you could make a copy without Xeroxing or wipe your nose with something other than Kleenex, I learned that pancakes and Bisquick were not in an exclusive relationship.

My dad brought forth this realization in high school.  He devised a recipe for pillowy Saturday-morning pancakes that involved some whole-wheat flour, nutmeg, and cinnamon and were served like shuffled cards stacked high on a platter.  For a few months, we added the tiny wild blueberries we picked with my great uncle in New Hampshire, shuttled back to Portland, Oregon, and froze for weekend breakfasts to come.

Then there was the cakey chocolate-chip version at the pancake house in college.  This phase did not last long–frequent plate-size pancakes along with dining-hall delectables and too much of a certain fermented grain beverage gave me a swollen look best reserved for water-logged corpses or third-trimester mamas.

A dear diner in Rhode Island served thinnish, moist gingerbread pancakes, dark from molasses and five to a stack.  These were the gold standard for at least four years, even after we had moved away.  I can still taste the lingering clove.

I had spongy sourdough pancakes in Tribeca in 2006.  I’ve been meaning to make them.

This is the highlight reel of my pancake experience.  Integral, as you may have noted, to weekend breakfasts.  Dave and I have already designated me as the cook of carbohydrate breakfasts for our weekend mornings with Elinor (he is a die-hard eggs-Benedict type).  And so I look forward to undertaking this role and intend to treat it with the requisite seriousness so that she, too, might develop the same affection for pancakes that I have.

Well, a similar affection, really.  Why?  Because, in The Tenth Muse, the esteemed cookbook editor Judith Jones reminded me of something I may have heard from time to time but tucked away in one of the remote, dark closets of my brain.  Here it is: Pancakes are not just a sweet breakfast; they make a fine savory dinner.

These spring pancakes are elegant and versatile, cashmere-like.  Sweet leeks and lemony sorrel suffuse the nutty batter.  I cook them sand-dollar size in a little clarified butter and spoon a dollop of crème fraîche on top.  Pure luxury.[/donotprint]

Leek-Sorrel Pancakes (adapted from Judith Jones’ The Tenth Muse)

2-3 medium leeks, dark outer leaves removed
2 cups sorrel, lightly packed
2 tablespoons butter
2 eggs
1/4 cup whole-wheat pastry flour (or any other flour)
Unrefined sea salt
Freshly ground pepper
Additional butter

Note: To make the flour more digestible and its nutrients more available, soak it overnight or up to 24 hours before cooking in 1/4 cup yogurt, buttermilk, or water with a teaspoon of vinegar or lemon juice.  When making the pancakes, add an additional handful of vegetables to compensate for the extra liquid that the yogurt (or the other options) adds.

C O O K .

• Vegetables. Heat a pan, preferably cast-iron, over medium to medium-high heat (i.e., water dances when sprinkled on the pan).  Remove the top portion of the leeks where the leaves begin to turn dark green.  Quarter them lengthwise but stop cutting immediately above the root.  Dunk each leek in a bowl of water and swirl it about, repeating until the water is clean.  Drain and pat dry; chop into 1/4″ inch segments.  Melt 1 tablespoon butter in the pan, then add the leeks and cook until softened, about 10 minutes.  In the meantime, clean and remove stems from the sorrel and cut in 1/2″ strips.  Once the leeks are soft, add the sorrel and cook until wilted, about 2 minutes.  Set the vegetables aside to cool slightly so that they don’t cause the eggs to cook when combined.
• Batter. In a medium bowl, whisk the eggs, flour, salt, and pepper until smooth.  Add the leeks and sorrel to the eggs and mix.
• Pancakes. Scrape away any leftover bits from the pan, and, if necessary, raise the heat to medium-high.  Melt 1 tablespoon butter.  Drop the batter in large spoonfuls and spread to 2 1/2″ wide.  Turn when little air holes begin to form around the edges, about 3 to 4 minutes.  The pancakes are done when the centers are firm, about 6 to 8 minutes total.  Add more butter before cooking later rounds of pancakes as necessary to prevent sticking.

E A T  A N D  D R I N K . Serve with a dollop of crème fraîche; its tang balances the pancakes’ richness.  For drink, try a dry, aromatic white from northern Italy.

V A R Y . This is a basic recipe that you can use year-round and vary endlessly depending on what you have on hand.  I like the combination of an allium (onion family) and leafy green with a corresponding fat and flour.  But once you’ve made this once and know the consistency the batter should be, you can add all sorts of ingredients and adjust the amount of eggs and flour to achieve the desired consistency.  Also, I suppose you could make the batter ahead or save it as leftovers, but you may have to thin before using it again.

• Summer. Substitute basil and grated summer squash, olive oil, and fresh goat cheese (chèvre) for the vegetables, butter, and crème fraîche.  If you use olive oil, keep the heat at medium or lower since olive oil has a lower smoking point and will degrade, causing harmful free radicals, at higher temperatures; adjust cooking time accordingly.
• Fall. Substitute escarole or another chicory and apple, ghee (slightly browned clarified butter), and Cheddar for the vegetables, butter, and crème fraîche.
• Winter. Substitute green cabbage, caramelized onions, and duck fat for the vegetables and butter.

L I T T L E  E A T S . For Elinor (still under a year), I omitted the flour and made gently cooked little pancakes with an egg and the vegetables, minced.  Or, the vegetables could be minced or pureed on their own with or without a nourishing liquid, such as chicken or beef stock, or breastmilk.

Text and photo © Blue Egg Kitchen 2010

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