Dutch babies are a signature dish of one old Portland institution, the Original Pancake House. When you order one, they bring it out all puffed up on the plate, sprinkled with powdered sugar and with a little carousel of toppings: whipped butter, lemon wedges and more powdered sugar. It’s like getting the sizzling platter of fajitas or the bubbling hotpot: the fanfare is a little embarrassing, but you know it will be worth it.
I was eight years old the first time I made one. It was late on a Saturday morning, and my dad was watching television in the living room, getting a solid start on the day’s drinking. I was left to my own devices, and without my mom home to stop me from endangering myself in the kitchen, I started perusing her cookbooks. I loved flipping through my mom’s tattered old copy of Joy of Cooking, and since I already had a repertoire of recipes for mud pies seasoned with sprinkles of dried morning glory leaves, I knew I was ready to move on to greater tasks than peeling potatoes or opening cans of olives. I found the only breakfast recipe that could be made from our meager food bank ingredients, listed as German pancakes.
I whisked together 1/2 cup flour, 1/2 cup milk (made from the powdered stuff in the donation box), 1/4 cup sugar and two eggs. I melted 4 tablespoons of margarine (we didn’t have butter) in my mom’s old cast iron skillet and poured in the batter, cooking on the stove for one, undisturbed minute and then baking in a 425° oven for 13 minutes.
I watched carefully through the oven’s window as my little creation baked, and when the timer dinged, I put on my mom’s oversized oven mitts and pulled it out. It was a sight — puffed and golden; immense beyond my wildest dreams. I proudly plated my beauty, sprinkled on a few drops of ReaLemon and some powdered sugar, and presented it to my father.
He didn’t believe that I had cooked it all by myself. I doubt he even realized I’d been in the kitchen. I don’t know if he ever figured out where it came from. I stood and stared at him as he devoured my handiwork in four or five bites, his eyes glued to the television the entire time. When he was finished, he handed me the empty plate without a word. After that, I spared myself the trouble and just ate them myself.
Dutch babies are just the thing when you have a craving for pancakes, but standing at the stove for thirty minutes just isn’t in the stars. They’re tender, sweet and eggy like a more substantial crepe, and are similarly adaptable to savory applications (mushrooms, herbs and cheese come to mind). And they’re fast and easy enough for an unsupervised child to make.
I made Dutch babies once and I was also amazed to see them puff up. They look so charming in that cast iron pan. When I made them, I needed to make quite a few at once, so I distributed them amongst all the baking dishes I could scrounge up: cake pans, pie plates, gratin dishes. Every one turned out!
When I was 5 or so my mother would sometimes send me over to a neighbor’s house while she was at work. This neighbor was a wonderful old world-travelled New England lady who taught me to cook many things, including Dutch Babies! We cook one up on an afternoon, squeeze into the nook in her kitchen, and enjoy our creation. Lemon and powdered sugar, too! This may have been the first “real” thing I learned to cook. Although, she had some sort of special high-sided Dutch Baby vessel which made them much more vertical. I haven’t made one in years – I will have to try this out in the cast iron skillet! Thank you – this made my day!
That is one magnificent pancake! Definitely my preferred choice over the regular kind. Your story made me sad, though. I’m sorry that you had to experience that. Children should be treasured, as I do mine and I know you do yours.
This is what finally turned me on to breakfast while I was growing up. We were lucky enough to live in a place with a lot of sugar maples, so we just brushed our pancake with extra butter and drizzled syrup all over. We usually ate in silence, trying to wake up enough to hear the bus coming down the road to pick us up. My step-brother, however, ate his sounding like a garbage disposal because his nasal congestion forced him to eat and breathe at the same time out of the same orifice.
Did you tell your mom? Was she proud of you or did you get into trouble? I gotta tell ya, I’ve never made these but I’m definitely gonna try them. They sound awesome! And as usual, your story was very cute and well written. Love ya.
Rebecca – I love the idea of making individual-sized Dutch babies. I have a lot of little pans that would be perfect, too.
Paul – Your comment made mine! Cast iron is the way to go, barring specialty Dutch cookware (I can’t really talk – I have an ebelskiver pan).
Susan – I feel the same way. I didn’t mean to sound like I was feeling sorry for myself; I just think it’s good to remember everything, instead of glossing over the bad stuff (or the good stuff).
Christina – My grandpa breathed through his mouth when he ate, too. I always thought it was because his nose hairs were blocking the nostrils.
Kim – I don’t remember! I think I would have wanted to tell her, but she was always so afraid that I’d hurt myself. Every time I tried to surprise her with my cooking she was wary of finding hair in it, or that I’d get germs in everything.
I grew up with crepes, and learned how to make American pancakes in the early 90s. Dutch Babies were a secret until a few years back, but once I made my first one, I was hooked! I can see my girls making them, even though the cast iron skillet is a bit heavy.
You touched my heart with your story. I wanted to whack your dad with the skillet for you:(
Yum! Like a sweet Yorkshire pudding. I will have a go with this next time I fancy a sweet breakfast.
next time I have an unsupervised child at my stove, I’ll request a dutch baby. It’s funny, I’ve never had one, but they’re almost like a running joke in our household after I noticed them on a diner menu one day that only listed them as “our most delicious pancake treat (30 minute wait time)”. Since I was hungover that day and couldn’t wait, I went for the blueberry short stack but I’ve been wondering ever since what the hell a dutch baby was and why they needed to be so mysterious about it. Now I know, I can make one, but I almost preferred not knowing what they were, the mystique was kind of alluring.
Yum! My almost 8 year old loves to cook so I think I’ll let him make these for me this weekend. When he’s done I’ll make sure he knows what a good job he did. Thanks for the inspiration!
I love a pancake without the flipping…it is sheer genius!!!
Gosh, Heather — those photos are gorgeous. Making me crave a Dutch baby right here right now at 3:30 in the afternoon. Crazy. Made me realize I don’t make these nearly often enough.
I just love, love, love this blog. Sure, the food is fantastic, but the writing is also delicious. Reminds me of my first cooking experiences. I used to make omelets for my dogs. Oh, & the first time I tried to make mac & cheese (also unsupervised), I somehow spilled the boiling water all over my leg & feet. Pay attention to yo’ kids, crazy parents.
I was never allowed in the kitchen, but I can see you had a passion even as a young’un. I love Dutch Babies sprinkled with blackberries and honey.
They do taste so much better with actual baby in the batter though. Especially if really Dutch.