In partnership with Leatherman
Growing up, I had a serious disdain for pancakes. I truly did. Waffles or crepes on the other hand, I could eat any time of the day. This year, however, something changed; I developed an odd hunkering for fluffy, buttery pancakes. I would look forward to weekends where I could make us Sunday morning pancakes, experimenting with different recipes and additions. The kicker though- I had never really made pancakes in my life, so my experiments were exactly that- experiments. They were truly abominable; ghastly little doughy pucks hidden under copious amounts of last season's rhubarb jam. They were crispy, yet under cooked, some were too acidic, some too sweet, some too cake-like, some the dogs wouldn't even eat. With this new hunger for creating the perfect pancake, I gave in and bought a fancy little bag of pancake mix before our last adventure into the Caribou; partially for ease, partially because I had given up.
With the sun at high noon, after a morning of roaming down through the canyon, through the hills of silver sage, we pulled the stove out to make some fancy-bag whole wheat pancakes on the tailgate. The dogs ran through the grasses, and the cast iron frying pan heated up on the camp stove, Bryan whisked the batter, I peeled the oranges and started melting the butter for those perfect golden brown flapjacks. Western medowlarks sang out above the spattering sounds of pancakes on a hot griddle, and we sat back basking in the sun. It was glorious.