Pancakes in our house are not just about lemon and sugar in my house - and they certainly aren't just about sweetness.
Instead, I give you (and you will be ever so grateful) mushroom stroganoff pancakes.
And here's how you do it.
The pancake mix was from my ancient Bero cookbook (thanking you Mum!) which I go to for ALL my best things.
The recipe was:
50g self raising flour,
1/2 pint milk
pinch of salt
I trebled the recipe because we are greedy so and so's.
So whisk that all up, feel all wholesome and earth mothery, pop it in the fridge (I think this causes actual voodoo) and get on with your filling.
2 onions, finely chopped
1 big heaped tablespoon of smoked paprika
4 garlic cloves, finely sliced (my original recipe said 2, but that is NOT ENOUGH)
400g of whatever mushrooms you like, or a mixture, sliced
200 ml of beef stock - or veg stock if you don't do eating animal, even in juice form
1 tbsp of Worcestershire sauce - or if you have a friend as awesome as Mother Scuffer replace this with Henderson's Relish, which I will ALWAYS pick over others now after she bought me some.
3 Tbsp of soured cream
How you do it:
In a splosh of whatever oil you have in the house (apart from baby oil, that wouldn't work) gently fry your onions until they go all soft, which as I've said before, takes FOREVER, then add your paprika and garlic and cook for another few minutes.
Add your mushrooms and cook until they're soft.
Add your stock and Henderson's relish, and stir and simmer until it's thickened into a nice gloopy texture.
Take off the heat and stir in your soured cream.
Pop this to one side whilst you make your pancakes. Feel very smug, because it is delicious.
Now the fun bit...
How we make pancakes:
1: Wonder if it matters that your frying pan is bent and just has that one strange hot spot that touches the hob.
2: Heat the pan and brush oil all over liberally.
3: Pour one ladleful of pancake mix onto the pan and do that twisty thing you do with pancakes to spread it around.
4: Use lots of words you hope your Grandparents don't know you know, scrape the first pancake off, bin it, take a deep breath, try again by repeating steps 2 and 3.
5: Repeat step 4 with longer, more imaginative streams of swearwords.
6: Burn your hand on the pan. Stick another pancake. Have a strop, throw the pan with cemented on mixture into the sink, run the taps, pour a coffee, dig out the griddle which actually IS flat, take another deep breath and prepare to do steps 2 and 3 again PROPERLY.
7: Stamp your feet because in your mad rush to stop the stupid bloody pancake sticking to ANOTHER pan you knock your coffee over and there is NO MORE IN THE HOUSE.
8: Tell your husband to sod off after he politely pokes his head in the room and asks if you need him to do the pancakes.
9: Try steps 2 and 3 again. Fail. Wonder whether you should cry. Your husband asks if you used a recipe, because your mix looks runny. Contemplate drowning him in the effing mix.
10: When your husband offers to help again open the kitchen door and throw the griddle, complete with glued on BLOODY PANCAKE MIX, into the garden.
11: Sit at the table sulking whilst your husband cleans the first pan, adds some flour to the pancake mix and proceeds to effortlessly produce a stack of perfect bloody pancakes.
12: Try to sound anything other thank sulky as you apologise and thank him for saving dinner.
13: Take the stack of perfect pancakes (sheepish look optional) and spoon in the mushroom stroganoff, roll the pancakes, and pop in a nice ovenproof dish.
14: Once the dish is full of stuffed pancakes spoon the excess stroganoff over the top, add some grated cheese and a sprinkle of smoked paprika because who doesn't like cheese, and pop in the oven on around 200c for twenty minutes or so to heat the stroganoff through and melt the cheese.
15: Wish you had actually taken ID to the supermarket so you could be drinking wine right now.
17: Contemplate giving up swearing for Lent. Realise this is impossible. Decide to give up making effing pancakes instead.