Scotch Pancakes

Saturday morning. The kitchen is cold because nobody has been in it yet. The kettle goes on first, then the pan. By the time the tea is made, the batter is mixed, and by the time the first cup is half drunk, there are pancakes.

Scotch pancakes are not American pancakes. They're smaller, thicker, closer to a drop scone than a diner stack. They don't need syrup or a production. They need butter, a smear of honey if you like, and a cup of tea strong enough to hold the spoon upright. The batter is the work of three minutes. The cooking is the work of ten. We're only making breakfast.

I make these on the mornings when I have no plan and no hurry. There's a rhythm to it that I like: the spoon of batter onto the hot pan, the wait for the bubbles, the flip, the stack. The kitchen warms up around you while you work. The notebook says, more than once, "Pancakes. Saturday. Quiet." That's all there is to say about them, really. They're a small, warm thing to put in front of someone, and there are few better feelings than that.