Thursday morning No. 2.1.

Yes I still keep a Thursday routine, although lately it's been surprisingly unconventional. Is it the "dog days" of winter that have me tired of eggs and oats? I never thought I'd bore of either, but this documentation process has me thinking an awful lot about variety. As much as I'd like to eat pancakes every day, I pride myself on eating fairly healthfully. With locally grown fruit scarce because of the season, it's a challenge. I like to sauté kale in extra-virgin olive oil with a clove of garlic and red pepper flakes. Or, make an apple salad. But today I wanted something different. It's no wonder that after several cups of PG Tips, I was inclined to indulge in a sort of brunch.

I made a pot of lentil soup yesterday, and like all soups, it tasted even better the day after. While it reheated, I set an egg to boil. I also boiled a little more water for a fresh cup of tea. Sheep's milk yogurt has become a staple in my house, and I thought a spoonful would brighten and add tang to the earthy and sweet lentils (which I'd cooked in water with carrot, celery, onion and potato and spiced with coriander, cumin, nutmeg and tumeric). It did, and the egg added nice texture. I forced myself to pause mid-meal to snap the photo above at bottom right. I wanted to remember the meal just like that: healthy, hearty and oddly beautiful (at least to me). Hours later, I am still satisfied, and happily distracted by future possibilities.

* Note: Snazzy egg holder was a gift, and is made by Holmegaard.

Hail the pancake!

This isn't an excuse. I've already given plenty of those. This is simply an account of my Tuesday, thus far, a day in which none of the following was intended.

I woke early, at dawn, smelling faintly of bourbon and sweat. It wasn't a dirty smell, but rather a sweet one, swollen with the ache and satisfaction of a long -- long isn't even the right word, I'll say epic -- weekend at work. I tip-toed to the kitchen and downed a glass of orange juice, then I remembered it was snowing when I ended my shift last night. In the living room, outside the giant south-facing windows, I could see bare tree tops weighted with white, the skinny arms of their branches struggling to reach the heavens. I stood there for what seemed like hours, in fact it was minutes, then I returned to my nest to sleep some more. I've been giving into sleep this year, embracing the body's inclination to hibernate. I cannot begin to tell you how good it's been, the strength it's given me.

But this morning, despite being exhausted, I could not fall back asleep. So, I went online for a bit (that always makes me tired), and in my aimless wandering I learned today is Pancake Day, or Shrove Tuesday. Growing up, I knew today as Fat Tuesday, but Pancake Day is so much better. Because pancakes are incredible. Pancakes are like people, always fascinating and endless in their variety. Some are big and fluffy. Others and small and thin. I like medium-sized flapjacks, the kind I can eat dozens of without feeling guilty. Pancakes, I realized as I lay there restless, deserve celebration. I giggled at the thought of my later breakfast, my dreams sent my heart aflutter. I awoke ravenous.

I'm not the pancake expert in my house. That distinction belongs to my roommate Michael, who has mastered a vegan recipe that I love not only because it's delicious but because I tend to think of vegan food as being healthy. The pancakes I made today were not vegan, and I'm sure most of their health benefits were emotional. They were neither fluffy nor thin, but dense and enjoyable to chew, like a fresh corn tortilla. They were buttery, and they were bright and sweet from the lemon juice and powdered sugar I dressed them in. Best of all, they were incredibly easy to make; the name says it all: one cup pancakes. I ate them like a woman possessed, by winter and snow and a hunger I have been neglecting, a hunger to cook and nurture my body and my soul. In the last bites, I went crazy, smearing soggy pieces of cake in orange and ginger yogurt.

I called everyone I knew, but no one could join me. Perhaps tomorrow. Pancake Day should be celebrated often and with reverence. Pancake Day is worth getting out of bed for.

One cup pancakes with lemon and powdered sugar
Adapted from Jamie Oliver

Ingredients

1 cup flour (all-purpose or self-rising)
1 cup whole milk
1 egg
1 teaspoon sea salt
1 tablespoon butter
1 lemon
Powdered sugar

In a medium-sized mixing bowl, whisk together flour, milk, egg and salt. Batter will be fairly thin and runny, but smooth.

Heat a small cast iron skillet on medium heat, add 1/4 of the butter.

Once butter has melted and pan is hot, ladle batter into the pan. One ladleful will fill the skillet and yield 1 pancake.

Cook for several minutes until the edges start to brown and small bubbles appear on the surface. Flip, and cook for another minute.

Transfer to a plate, carefully wipe the pan, and start again.

Upon serving, finish with a squeeze of lemon and a sprinkle of powdered sugar.

Serves 2-4.

The time.

For a little while, I thought could slip back in here without mentioning that elephant in the corner. Despite my swelling schedule (due mainly to holiday commitments, the odd extra shift at work and a long list of friends passing through town, which happily resulted in many delicious coffees and lunches out and about), I doodled countless lists of ideas, recipes, thoughts on seasonal entertaining and general to-dos. I wanted to share them, but I felt stunted by limited amounts of time in the kitchen. I found myself forced to keep things simple. Instead of indulgent mornings spent cooking and reading, I turned oddly agrarian. I topped quick pots of oats with toasted pumpkin seeds and maple syrup. I wrestled with cravings for flapjacks and fried eggs. Cooking variations of beans and rice and braised greens seemed decadent. One night out, I ordered (and devoured) a bowl of oxtail chili. Chili!

Then a few weeks ago, on the first full day I've spent home in what felt like ages, I treated myself to something special. I walked down the block to my local wine shop, where I selected a 1998 Rhone Syrah -- a bit lean, but full of leather, spice and tannins -- then I marched into Bedford Cheese Shop and said to the guy, "I wanna make the best grilled cheese ever." He offered up little slivers of several types of cheese before I settled on Beeler Wildspitz Bio, an organic raw cow's milk cheese with a gulp of goat's milk. The flavor is intense, not unlike traditional Swiss cheeses but way funkier. I thought it would be perfect sliced onto Amy's seeded wheat bread, generously spread with the butter. With some collard greens and jazz, the night was a success.

But it was more that that, too. That night affirmed not just my joy of cooking, it reminded me of all the other magic: the actual meal itself, the people and places that help create it. I love chatting with the guy at the cheese shop, the girl at the market, or any number of my friends about what they're dreaming up in the kitchen. I seemed to have lost that in the daily hustle and bustle, and I'm sorry. To the friends who weren't afraid of the elephant, thank you.