Make this comforting breakfast for a 50 year old

1/4 cup butter
3 eggs
3/4 cup flour
3/4 cup milk

1. Preheat oven to 425. Use a 2-3 quart cast iron pan. (Measure the volume by pouring quarts of water in the pan.)
2. Place the butter in the pan and melt it in the oven while mixing the batter.
3. In a food processor, blend the eggs at a high speed for one minute. 4. With the motor still running, pour in the milk, the add the flour. Continue blending for 30 seconds. 5. Remove the pan from the oven and add the batter. Return the pan to the oven and bake around 24 minutes, until pancake is browned and puffy.
6. Dust with nutmeg or cinnamon, if you wish.
If you wish serve with powdered sugar. SUGGESTED fillings (optional but recommended)
29 ounces of any pie filling or fresh sliced strawberries, peaches or bananas
Top with yogurt, whipped cream or sour cream. If you want syrup instead, maple or fruit syrup will serve you well.
Serves 4
This pancake makes a gorgeous presentation.


Turning 50
by Jillian Leslie - Webmaster of Everyday Warriors

I had a difficult time getting out of bed today. Snuggled tightly under my down comforter, balancing somewhere between restless dreams and reality, I felt safe from my nemesis. By keeping the covers over my head and curling in a fetal ball, I wouldnít have to face it. It couldnít touch me. As usual, sleep mocked me.

After a deep sigh, I got up, showered, brewed some bed and breakfast blend Java and watched my dogs playfully biting each otherís paws, tumbling in wild wrestling holds on the carpet. Traitors! How could they be oblivious to my pain? How could they not know that tomorrow Iíll be forced to grapple with IT? Dear furry ones, donít you see Mommyís pain? How can you joyously writhe on the floor, ignoring me while Iím suffering? Donít you realize this is the eve of the Big 5-0? Your Mommy is older than a mud clod.

Truth is, I HATE TURNING 50!

My father, soon to be 85, said to me, "What are you bellyaching about? Fifty? Youíre just a kid!" (That comment scored points. A kid? I love that!) My 27-year-old niece said, "You canít help being part of the older generation. You donít look it." (Older generation? Who me? Iím just a kid! My dad told me so! And wad-da-ya mean, by saying I Donít look it? Thatís supposed to be a compliment? What is 50 supposed to look like, anyway?)


Iím the dubious owner of six gray hairs. Sure, graying is inevitable, but Our Lady of Perpetual Clairol can eliminate that problem. Still, dyed or not, the yellowish spirals silently mock me, then grow fruitful and multiply. How insulting. What are those veins behind my left knee? Many years ago, those legs were exposed by mini skirts--even macro-mini skirts, as part of my everyday wardrobe. If I wore those now, Iíd be arrested for indecent exposure--or worse. When I was a young teenager, deeply in love with Paul McCartney (who I just knew would marry me one day), I decided that the day he looks old to me, Iíll feel old too. He does. I do.


Heads no longer turn when Iím walking in town. Harmless flirting is an ancient memory. And speaking of memory, where did mine go? Why do dates and places blend into each other? What did you say your name was again? Iím good with faces, but canít remember names. Somehow, Iíve become invisible. Younger people look through me. Why do looks count for so much? And worse, since weíre "mature" adults, why should we care? But care, we do. Turning 50 is like reliving adolescenceĖand that was horrid enough the first time. Fifty often focuses on the external. When did that wrinkle appear? I swear, it wasnít there yesterday. Why are things that were once proud and perky now puckered and sagging? Why is it impossible to read small print? Why are the reflexes slowing? Why, why, why? I hate turning fifty.


I no longer rely heavily on the opinions of others. I do my best and if they donít like it, sorry, tootsie-pie! I can be myself: no airs, no games no pretense. You donít like my opinion? Thatís fine. Letís hear yours. Weíll discuss it. If necessary, weíll shake hands and agree to disagree.


At 50, as trite as this is, I feel more comfortable in my skin. Instead of searching for myself, Iím searching--yearning--to know other's thoughts and ideas. Iím looking at the world around me, hungering for as much knowledge about this planet-- this universe-- as I can cram in my head. The journey is grand, elating! Ah, the pleasure of learning! The pleasure of reading! The pleasure of writing! The pleasure of long discussions and debates with my husband and my friends about every conceivable topic! The best discovery is the relief in knowing itís okay to be wrong, and being able to say I donít know--what delicious freedom this! Frankly, I donít know much about anything. I love that. With that discovery of worldly ignorance, I can explore, ask and study the rest of my days.


At 50 I am cautious, but find adventure in risk. At 50 I realize change is opportunity, not something to fear. At 50 I am learning the importance of gratitude and realizing that many other people--of many ages-- are homebound because of illness, too. And many people handle it with much more grace than I. They are my heroes. Though I am ill, I can still cry when I hear Beethovenís 9th, waltz around the house to The Nutcracker Suite, write a story, cook a mean quiche, start my Web site, and most cherished joy of all, laugh with my husband and bask in the warmth of my dear Internet sisters and brothers. Ambrosia! And so, for tomorrow, when I hit the BIG ONE, I will raise a glass to all who have already reached this milestone. But, best of all, I will look forward to next year, when I can gripe about turning fifty-one.