There was no sourdough bread in my pandemic plans.
No kombucha or kimchi, either.
But I did master a culinary goal with the help of crêpe-maker extraordinaire Steve Nson, father of my three granddaughters.
At least weekly this summer, he would break out the small sauté pan and measuring cups as he prepared the favorite breakfast of those at my table, gathered as we were to brave the threat of the coronavirus by isolating ourselves together with the best medicine of all, i.e. good food.
He has made them before in my kitchen during much shorter visits, during which I've been a hearty admirer and hungry diner. I've eaten my fair share of these treats, served simply with powdered sugar, never to have them again until the next visit.
But this year was different, in so many ways. The stay was prolonged, the breakfasts many and, well, it was time I learned for myself.
To be clear — as my granddaughters will remind anyone and everyone who mispronounces the name — these are called crêpes (one syllable, pronounced as in "step"). Not crepe as in crepe paper. No, indeed.
"It's crêpe," they would correct me, as only a 6- and 9-year-old can do when I carelessly slipped on the wrong pronunciation. They know because their father told them so. And they do not tolerate mistakes, even from Grandma.