{"id":1769,"date":"2005-02-28T00:44:00","date_gmt":"2005-02-28T00:44:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/elitemporaryblog.wordpress.com\/2005\/02\/28\/9-am-sunday-butter-and-babies"},"modified":"2015-09-24T03:54:29","modified_gmt":"2015-09-24T03:54:29","slug":"9-am-sunday-butter-and-babies","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/orangette.net\/2005\/02\/9-am-sunday-butter-and-babies\/","title":{"rendered":"9 am Sunday: butter and babies"},"content":{"rendered":"
One night last week\u2014after five glasses of wine, a deep-fried breaded soft-boiled egg, and a Freudian slip about a man who once fed me a meal consisting only of sprouts\u2014my former employer Rebecca<\/a> invited me to a breakfast of Dutch babies with her gay husband Jimmy. Knowing a good thing when I hear it, I accepted immediately. After all, I like nothing so much as a Dutch baby pancake, hot and puffy from the skillet<\/strong>, on a Sunday morning.<\/p>\n Rebecca and Jimmy have known each other since the late \u201870s, when they lived in the same building in St. Petersburg, Florida. As Rebecca tells it, she knew that she had<\/em> to meet Jimmy when she noticed his apartment window \u201cdisplays\u201d <\/strong>from the parking lot: mannequin parts from a department store, or a Perrier towel hung on the wall and lit from beneath. Their first official meeting was rather auspicious\u2014Rebecca was wearing no pants, a story for another time\u2014and today Jimmy, Rebecca, and Rebecca\u2019s straight husband John all live in the same building here in Seattle, just seven floors apart. Jimmy is the baker; John is the cook; and Rebecca is the force of nature. On the stove were two small Lodge<\/a> cast-iron skillets, a hefty<\/strong> cube of butter in each.<\/p>\n<\/a>And so I arrived at Jimmy\u2019s at nine o’ clock to find an industrial steel table set for two, Jimmy in an apron<\/strong>, and Rebecca with wet hair and her usual morning iced tea, obligatory straw<\/strong> in place (she always<\/em> uses a straw, no matter what she\u2019s drinking; \u201cI have five thousand straws,\u201d she tells me, \u201cAll red!\u201d).<\/p>\n
<\/strong>
\u201cMoll, you need two husbands,\u201d Rebecca said solemnly this morning, stirring a small iceberg into her tea; \u201cYou can\u2019t expect one person to be everything for you. I mean, really<\/em>.\u201d Jimmy listened silently, a strategy he\u2019s wisely developed over the years. I nodded\u2014she\u2019s got a point\u2014but frankly, I was distracted by the action in the kitchen. After all, the method for making a Dutch baby is only slightly less awe-inspiring that that for making a regular human one.<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/a>
Turning on the burners, Jimmy carefully melted the butter, brushing it up to coat the sides of the skillets, and then, working quickly and dexterously, he poured the batter\u2014akin to that for a pancake, but with more eggs and less flour\u2014into the melted butter.<\/p>\n<\/a>
He slid the skillets into the oven, and within moments, the magic began, the pancake rising like a bowl-shaped souffl\u00e9<\/strong> out of its foaming, sizzling pool of butter.<\/p>\n