Pancakes

"Uh, isn't it a little early to be drinking a beer?"

Kid Two asked me that one on our last camping trip. It probably had something to do with the fact it was 9 am Saturday Morning.

It occurred to me then and there that that wasn't the first time I'd heard that particular question.

But not the way you're thinking.

I had heard it last uttered from my own lips, in the dim, distant past during a camping trip, querying my Dad. I would probably have been nine or ten at the time. Probably younger.

The fact that it took Kid Two until nearly sixteen to ask that of me - well, that just means I've been embarrassingly slack in the camping department.

Dad was in charge of breakfast on the family camping trips - and on most hunting camps. One of the most memorable Breakfast dishes he whipped up was "Ranch Style Eggs - " a concoction of stewed tomatoes and bacon with eggs poached in it - best served to hangover sufferers. But that, mercifully, is a story for another time, and I digress.

Dad made Pancakes.

Looking back, I realize that this was a skill he acquired throughout the historical course of our outings. I recall the first few batches weren't all that great. Tasty, sure, but commonly a mangled lump, occasionally scorched.

This is not to say I have not scorched more than my share of pancakes. It does turn out, however, that I'm much more efficient at scorching Ribs. Into Frustrating Charcoal. But we're talking about breakfast.

To be fair, Dad didn't have the excellently engineered tools I have; Teflon-coated aluminium skillets, carbon-vinyl flippers, and the like. He used an old stainless steel flipper on a cast iron fry pan, with a little butter to keep things from sticking. It's amazing any of his creations came out one-piece, and golden fluffy brown. And they usually did.

The fluffiness was key. And dad discovered the secret to light-fluffy pancakes. No matter what scratch recipe or brand of mix you use, use Beer.

The foam lightens the mix. Dad liked Coyote Pancake flour and... well, honestly I don't recall that he was fixed on a particular brand of Beer. He liked Lethbridge Pil, Black Label, and Kokanee, But it was a crap shoot what you'd find in his Fridge. He even went on an MGD kick for a while.

But always Coyote Pancake Flour.

I'm not so much the purist - I don't really care what brand of Mix I use, and have found it doesn't really matter. I've also found that Coors Lite provides the desired effect for my flapjacks without all that telltale, hoppy taste that one finds in Beers with... Flavour.

Now, I've been cooking experimentally for some time, and recognise that Freshness and aroma are desirable qualities in the ingredients I use in my culinary creations. I'm not above a little preparatory sampling.

So when I asked my dad that fateful question, so long ago, His answer was "I'm not Drinking Beer. I'm making Pancakes."

I, in my foolish youth, took that to mean it was the cook's prerogative to finish off the beer that he obviously didn't use up in the Mix.

Time and experience have taught me otherwise - It's the cook's duty to ensure the freshness and flavourfullness of every ingredient that goes into the dish. To not do so would be a disservice.

"I'm not Drinking Beer," I told Kid Two. "I'm making Pancakes."

One Match

My training in bushcraft started when I was 7 years old.

That was when Dad had me join my brother, sister, and assorted cousins scouring the brush in the area of our summer campsites in search of kindling to start the campfire with.

Pitch was the best. It was also pretty tough to harvest when you wouldn't own a penknife for another two years. Coincidentally, that's also when you permanently crease the print on your left index finger, but never mind that.

The best pitch was found on knots of branches that had broken off a live tree a couple years ago. The pitch - especially on Pine trees - was thick, hard, and had bubbled into a mass that could be conveniently carved away from the bark without seriously damaging a tree. And boy, does it burn.

Dad would take all the sundry fire starting matériel from us kids, and collect it together in a lump at the center of the fire pit, build a campfire in a cross-hatch structure from twigs and kindling around said lump, and light the whole mess up.

With a single match.

Of course, as none of the collected second generation had reached puberty by then, we all thought this was marvelous, especially since the skill came with it's own title - "One-Match Phil."

One-Match Phil was legendary, and made appearances at all camping functions from fishing on the Elk in February, all the extended family camping in summer, right through to elk hunting in 4 feet of snow in November.

And then - he bought a chainsaw.

It took me a long time to discover this was the watershed moment. As it turned out, Grandad passed away when I was about 12, and Dad bought the chainsaw about the same time. It made sense, as I was suddenly occupied with Dad in late summer and early fall from my early teens in the collection of firewood for Grandma.

Grandma had a wood-burning stove in the kitchen in Kimberley that supplemented her central heat. That and she just liked a fire.

What I hadn't noticed at the time - but recognize now - is that whole second generation had aged, and, as a result, had become less interested in combing the underbrush for fire-lighting supplies.

But One-Match persevered. For a long time, He collected his own pitch.

One November, he just gave up the subterfuge. At this point, the Chainsaw had become a fixture in our camping gear - probably because we had denuded the breadth of the Kootenays of fallen scrub kindling by that point.

It had been raining for days, a wet, cold, half sleet soak that permeated everything. Dad calmly cut the top off a pop (beer) can and filled the bottom with chainsaw gasoline from the small jerry can that accompanied the chainsaw everywhere.

He set that in the center of the pit where the ball of kindling would go, and built up the wood frame around it - and lit it.

With a single match.