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Pancakes and milk gravy As a student at the University of Georgia in the late 1940s, I lived at Mrs. Benson’s large boarding house. One weekend I was told that Mrs. Benson’s daughter Frances would fix my breakfast Sunday morning—the family’s favorite breakfast specialty—pancakes covered with milk gravy. Early Sunday morning I hurried down to the kitchen to see Frances already at the stove making stacks of golden pancakes. “Great,” she said. “You’re right on time. Go ahead and eat while they’re hot.” I sat down and reached for a bowl of what I took to be milk gravy and covered my stack with a liberal helping. With the first bite I almost gagged. Not wanting to hurt the poor girl’s feelings, I bravely choked down most of the rest. Frances suddenly turned around with a perplexed look on her face and said, “Now where did I put my bowl of batter?” Then spotting it next to my plate, she stared at the remains of my mutilated pancakes and shrieked, “You didn’t! Please tell me you didn’t!” Never again will I eat battered pancakes Howard Alley | Highlands | Haywood EMC |
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