Homemade Pancakes

Nothing like some Hot Pancakes on a cold fall morning, or any morning for that matter! My little children just beg for these at breakfast. So after trying several recipes this is our favorite, here on the farm. Hope you all enjoy, and remind them to kiss the cook!

Down on the Farm Pancakes

2 Cups Buttermilk

1/4 Cup (1/2 stick) of Real Butter, Melted and Cooled

2 Large Fresh Farm Brown Eggs

2 Cups All Purpose Flour

1 Teaspoon of Baking Soda

3 Tablespoons of Granulated Sugar

1 Teaspoon of Kosher Salt

1 Teaspoon Vanilla Extract

Add together Buttermilk, with melted butter and egg: set aside. Whisk together flour, baking soda, sugar and salt, and then add the buttermilk mixture to the flour mixture. Very gently mix together. Mixture should be thick and lumpy; Do Not Over Mix. Add vanilla.

Heat a griddle to 350 degrees. Scoop mixture using a 1/4 measuring cup. Pour onto heated griddle, when middle begins to bubble and edges look dry, turn over to brown the other side.  Serve while piping hot with REAL maple syrup. Other great topping... Bananas and walnuts, Homemade strawberry syrup, Homemade blueberry syrup, fried skillet apples... the list goes on and on.

Fall Time In My Neck Of The Woods

The generous autumn days are come, The merriest of the year, With dewy morns and rosy eves, And harvest moonlight clear; The hoar-frost shineth thin and white O'er mountain and o'er plain; It gems the faded grass And the stubble of the grain.   What time the day-dawn flecks the east, A gauzy, filmy veil Floats o'er the crystal river, In the hollow of the vale. The bearded oats, the juicy wheat, Have all been gather'd in, The latest crispy husk of corn Is garner'd in the bin.   The apples of the orchard, Red with the sun's caress, Enrich the farmer's cellars Or feed the cider-press. Now is the season's carnival, The fête-time of the year, When the blithe October breezes Blow bracingly and clear.   When husking frolics in the barn, Or the flooding broad moonlight, Prolong with jocund dance and song The watches of the night. For all the toil of seed-time And the harvest now are o'er, Save where the flail resoundeth On the busy threshing-floor.   Now when the genial breezes Sweep through the fading wood, Tossing the scarlet maples, And the oak leaves many-hued; Ere dawns the day o'er hill and lawn, The sportsman takes his way To upland moor, or woodland haunts, Or open breezy bay.   The outlying deer are now afoot, To browse the dew-wet grass, Or pause to taste the crystal brook, And lakelet clear as glass; The brown quail in the cedar copse Leads forth her hungry brood. The partridge whirs through open glade, Or through the hemlock wood.   Now o'er the salt and sedgy marsh, Where bends the rustling reed, The piper and the plover On the briny shallows feed. The black-duck and the widgeon Are swimming in the bay, The geese and brant in black platoons Defile their long array.   It is the sportsman's festival, The year's most glorious time, When the dahlia and the aster Are in their golden prime, When the rainbow-painted forests Are resplendently aflame, When every healthful breath we draw Adds vigor to the frame.   The sweetest of our Northern bards Hath sung in mournful lay Of the dreary time of autumn-- Of the "sad" October day. But methinks the changeful glories, The sport, the harvest cheer, Make the autumnal season The brightest of the year.     More poems by Isaac McLellan