Fat as a pancake

It being Monday (nothing to do with it, actually, but a sentence has to start somehow) and the sun shining (irrelevant, but I want you to know it's not all gales and snow here), I decided, after getting back from Ely, to do the second batch of pancakes.

The pancakes my mother made were light, delicate, crispy at the edges. She sprinkled sugar and squeezed lemon juice on the open pancake and then folded it and cut it into bit-sized mouthfuls. They were melt-in-the-mouth delicious.

I managed to eat two of the pancakes I made this morning, but it was a struggle. They had the thickness and consistency of the soles on a pair of army boots.

I followed the recipe, Mother, honestly I did. Well, moreorless. I guessed the amount of plain flour, but it looked about right. I thought the amount of butter was a bit measly, so I added a bit more than the recommended 50gm. Yes, Mother, two eggs. Beaten? Oh, did I need to beat them? And yes, Mother, 200ml of milk. Well, it seemed a lot so I didn't use it every last drop. In fact I used just half of it.

Anyway, all is not lost: the unused mix will come in handy for filling some cracks in the mortar on the back wall.