breakfast of champions, I guess, like little chocolate donuts

We were on Mount Baker a couple weeks ago, when the weather was still warm and sunny at sea level but brisk and foggy at elevation (the fog obscured the peak most of the time, boo). We hiked in and camped just below the glacier, in a sprawling meadow that would have inspired Julie Andrews to burst into spontaneous, annoying song about deer and Christmas presents. There were mountain huckleberries everywhere. Literally everywhere. When I needed to make number one in the dark, I had little choice but to pee right on them. They were that abundant. So before hiking out the next morning, I spent some time hunkered over in the bushes, filling up one of our Nalgene water bottles with delicious little gems (picked from an area that would have been difficult to pee on, unless you have Inspector Gadget legs and excellent balance).


The ground is covered in huckleberry bushes. Except for the narrow trail. And I snacked.

Not really knowing what else to do with them, and only having brought home a quart (next time I must remember to bring a hand-truck and some Rubbermaid containers up the mountain with me), I froze them and will be using them in small quantities to liven up otherwise ordinary and/or boring foods. Such as pancakes.

Ugh, pancakes. I know this will be an unpopular position on the matter, but I am not a fan of the pancake breakfast. They make me feel like lead for the rest of the day. I want protein in the morning, not dessert. I used to love them--or rather the experience of them--as a wee little thing, when my Dad would get up early on a Saturday and attempt to make Mickey Mouse shapes with the batter, but accidentally end up with only two conjoined rounds instead of three. He made the most of his error, carving a hole in the center to fill with syrup and calling his creation "butt pancakes". We laughed our little asses off. We were very easily amused.

Of course CK adores pancakes, craves them fortnightly, and frequently requests them for breakfast on a weekend. I usually refuse, sometimes compromising with French toast (quicker to make but still dessert-ey), most often I just make omelets. However, having huckleberries on hand changed things a little and I felt like being a gracious and wonderful wife just this one time. I supplemented this cakey, sweet, heavy-as-iron breakfast item (which was vastly improved by the addition of huckleberries, only strengthening my belief that huckleberries make everything better), with chicken apple sausage and applewood smoked bacon. I got my meat, he got his pancakes.


Overall not a difficult cooking task, but it was probably the highlight of the month so far.