Of beer pancakes, Dad and the psychology of breakfast

They say that smell is more closely linked to memory than any other sense. It stands to reason that taste, being closely related to smell, would also have the same effect. Simply smelling or tasting something can trigger trigger vivid memories and emotions.

My question is this: Can it be reversed? Can a memory of something be so strong that you can actually smell and taste it?

Wednesday night, I was settling in to watch a hockey game and I had the overwhelming smell and taste of pancakes. Not just any pancakes. My Dad's beer pancakes.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Who would waste perfectly good beer making pancakes? Then, I'd introduce you to the resourceful man my Dad was. And tell you about his habit of creating happy accidents and adhering to family tradition.

Like all of Dad's stories, the story about how beer pancakes came into existence changed depending on whether we were standing around a campfire, breakfast table or poker table. This is the version I heard most often:

We were at deer camp one year and whoever was supposed to bring milk didn't. (Probably him.) Everyone was supposed to bring a 5-gallon jug of water, but not everyone did. Pretty sure I brought one. You know I don't like going without water. (True story. He'd forget toilet paper, but never water.) So the day it was my turn to make breakfast, we didn't have any milk and we were short on water. But we had plenty of beer, so I figured I'd give it a shot. The rest is history. Everyone liked them so much, I started making them all the time.

Dad started making them at home when I was two or three years old. He probably didn't make them as often as I think he did, but if you ask me now, I'd probably tell you he made them most of the time he made breakfast on the weekend.

I guess he probably made them to remind himself of a simpler time in his life, and to bring back memories of being with his buddies and their new families in an Eastern Oregon deer camp for a week. They'd hunt all day, drink beer and play poker or sitting on strap lawn chairs or logs around a campfire all night to see who could spin the best yarn about catching the biggest trout, the most smelt or the monster buck that got away.

My memories of beer pancakes center around deer camp and the smell of the scrub cedar and sumac that surrounded the clearing along Middle Caney Creek in Chautauqua County in Southern Kansas. My dad cooked on a cast-iron griddle on an ancient Coleman stove he probably built from spare parts he acquired in the early 60s when he worked for that company.

Now, it's been at least 25 years since I've had Dad's beer pancakes. But on Wednesday night, the sense of smell and taste hit me so hard, I knew I had to make them this weekend. They weren't as "beer-y" - or as good - as Dad's, but still had that familiar tangy-sweetness I remember.

Maybe beer pancakes simply taste better after a morning spent sitting in a tree. Or maybe they're better when someone else makes them while telling you about how he created the recipe and you laugh, not because it's the fifth time you've heard this version of the story, but because you can see his enjoyment in making them while telling the story.

Or maybe it was just the company.

The Contradictions of St. Patrick's Day

We owned a bar for six years and I think I will always miss it most at this time of year. Usually, the week before St. Patrick's Day was like herding cats for me. Ordering corned beef and lamb. Coordinating beer and liquor deliveries. Picking up cabbage and potatoes. Scheduling kitchen and bar help. Baking soda bread. And a hundred other things that turned my hair gray or made it fall out.

I always worried that no one would show up and I'd be throwing out $125 worth of Irish stew.

It never happened. People always came. Everyone always had a good time. Even me. Mostly because after a week of stress and making preparations, I was happy to be drinking with the staff while we worked covered up with patrons eager to celebrate the country's Irish heritage

That's right... OUR country's Irish heritage. So much of what we know about St. Patrick's Day is purely an American affectation. The first parade celebrating St. Patrick took place in New York City. Why? Because the Irish immigrants wanted to celebrate their homeland and were not under the influence of the Church. They drank because they missed the families they left.

Ask an Irishman what corned beef and cabbage tastes like and he couldn't tell you. The poor Irish immigrants in the U.S. ate that because they could afford it. It's purely an American tradition. If you order an Irish car bomb in a pub, the bartender will give you the same look an air marshall would if you mentioned the term while boarding a flight.

Besides, St. Patrick's Day in Ireland is a deeply religious day that included fasting. And no drinking. Not something you would typically associate with the stereotypical St. Paddy's Day celebration. Dublin didn't even have a parade until very recently. It's odd to me that bagpipes, which is arguably a Scottish instrument, play the same tune while the pipers march. "Scotland the Brave" is the tune most often played.

Those first revelers wore green as a reminder of the green that dominates the Irish countryside, but St. Patrick's representative color was blue. Here are a couple of other things: St. Patrick is a saint in name only. He was never canonized by the Pope, but has been anointed by the love the Irish people hold for him, which in itself is odd because the Irish typically do not hold Englishmen in such high regard.

So in honor of that contradiction, I'd like to share what I miss most about the bar... the music. When I went to Ireland 10 years ago, my favorite town was Galway, a town known to produce the best in Irish music. So in honor of the contradictions surrounding this day, the first song I'll share is one written by an American who was as devastated by a local girl as I was with the people and landscape of Galway.

The Cornstarch Incident

When we owned the bar, the boys were still really young. Although they weren't completely self-sufficient at 3, they could move through the house and get what they wanted, even when they shouldn't have.

They could also open the baby gate. It was a team effort, as I found out later. Aidan would stand on the foot release trigger thing while holding onto the rail, and Tristan would swing the gate open.

But until that morning, I was under the impression that the child safety gates were child proof.

I lived by the adage that when the boys slept, I slept. I ran a bar, after all, and was up until 3 or 4 a.m. They could sense when I needed sleep and when I didn't. If I needed sleep, they were like insomniac meth heads with a Starbucks gift card. If I didn't need sleep, they slept till 8.

Of course, I was usually up at 6.

Like I said, we owned a bar. It got hot; I was hauling ass most of the time. Sometimes, there was chafing involved. Hey... it happens. I kept a box of cornstarch on my dresser and used it when needed.

It was a Friday morning and after closing on Thursday night, I stayed late to talk to a friend who was going through a divorce. I walked in the door at 3:30, showered and went to bed. Ashley got up and moving and I slept, hoping the boys would sleep in until 8, as they would do occasionally.

Sensing that I needed sleep, as soon as Ash closed the door to leave for work, they came in ready for breakfast at about 5:45. Moaning about my luck, I drug myself out of bed and started my day, looking forward to nap time.

I made it through the morning on a steady infusion of diet coke and Spongebob Squarepants. I also got them lunch early so they'd go down for a nap early, something my Mom taught me.

It worked. I got them down for a nap about 11, and as soon as they were good and asleep, I went to bed and was out.

You know those dreams you have when you actually feel something? You wake up and there's a reason you were feeling what you were feeling. I had a dream that I was sitting on the dock and dangling my feet in the water watching the boys splashing around.

I woke up about 12:15. There was no way I should be waking up less than an hour after getting the boys down. They usually slept two or three hours.

At that point, I noticed that there was a strangely cool sensation on my feet. I kicked at the covers to get them warm and a cloud of powder erupted from the end of the bed.

What the. . .

Remember the scene in The Godfather when they sent a message to the studio mogul who won't give the god son a role in a new movie? Right... the infamous horse head scene. I imagine myself looking like Jack Woltz as he discovered his prize thoroughbred's head in bed with him.

I pulled at the sheets. I made inderscernible questioning sounds. I think I may have stood up on the bed at one point. I definitely screamed "NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" at the top of my lungs.

My feet... hell, my legs up to my knees... were covered in cornstarch. That whole end of the bed was covered. There was some on the floor. There were three tiny, perfect, cornstarchy handprints on the footboard. There was cornstarch on the dog's bed and a half-dollar sized dollop of the stuff still on her head. She looked at me as if to say "If you can't control those little bastards, take me back to the shelter. This sucks!"

The almost empty box of cornstarch lay on its side next to a pile of the powdery stuff that invaded the closet. I spewed a string of expletives all the way to the garage to get a broom and dustpan. I swept under the bed and in the closet. I shook out the dog bed and sheets took them down to the wash.

I mopped. I returned to find that there was still more powder. It took three times to get all the cornstarch off the floor. It was ridiculous. We moved the bed one day to rearrange the room. Little wisps of the stuff fell off the bed's frame to the floor. Ash and I had a laugh about it. It had been a couple of months and I could laugh about it.

To this day, we still find evidence of "The Cornstarch Incident" in the cracks of the oak floor more than four years later.