In my teenage years the cooking escapades escalated. I’d outgrown my recipe misreading days and had started to actually get some things right. I was blessed with the good fortune of a little sister, in fact a toddling and later preschool aged sister which among other benefits granted me with stronger rationales to make decadent breakfasts. At age fifteen I developed quite the penchant for lemon and sugar filled crêpes. Those who knew me as a teenager would not be surprised that I often referred to them as craps, finding myself to be incredibly witty and naughty at the same time, I’d giggle uncontrollably when declaring to my degustation buddy, “Craps are served” to the chagrin of my proper mother and her tenacity for keeping our language clean and our grammar pure.
The first attempts were impatiently undertaken – clotted mixture and unchilled batter a poignant reminder to my parents of my early epicurean days where gluten flour was once mistaken for plain and orange syrup donuts which met their unfortuitous and rubbery end in the scrap bucket under our kitchen sink top while I cried salt tears over a disappointed dessert.
A few nights ago I rekindled my love for buttery crêpes, rice paper fine at Breizoz on Gertrude Street. In the balmy light we sat with decorum, sipped cider from Breton mugs, chatted and became more Francophilic by the minute. We were all very well behaved and grown up and let me say, not one of us said “crap” at the dinner table, including yours truly.