An American in Provence

Many moons ago, on a pilgrimage to the Casino in Lambesc (thanks Poppy Fields!) I snagged a box of pancake mix, syrup, a small French size box of Oreos (yeah, that was gone in about a day- seriously, why put only four oreos in each packet?!), bagel chips, and Pepperidge Farm cookies.
Since then, I have been subjecting Alain to my pancake attempts.
I am convinced there are three requirements in order to make good pancakes (in descending order of importance):

1) be a mother
2) be a woman
3) be American
My mom's pancakes? Fabulous.
Mine? So-so.
A french mother's? Could be good with practice.
A French man's? Not even a chance.

My first few attempts were horrendous- thick slabs, burnt on the outside and still raw on the inside.
I diligently kept at it, to the point where Alain would whimper every time I took the box out of the cabinet, and say:
"Why can't we just have croissants today?" Because!
Or: "Why can't you make pancakes like your mother?"
Because dear, I don't have the final ingredient yet: kids of my own.
Or: "It's not possible, you cannot be American and make such terrible pancakes!" Do you want to be hit with the spatula?

He finally figured it out: "You are just practicing on me for when we have kids!"
Um, duh? Three years of marriage and you're just figuring out now that all of my cooking is practicing on you?

Towards the end of the box, they were getting more or less eatable, except for the occasional "Watch out dear, there is part of an eggshell in one of the pancakes. Just think of it as a galette des rois. Enjoy!"
The box is now finished. Don't know when I will be able to find another. Might have to make another pilgrimage the next time I am in the area.

Maybe one day I will attempt pancakes with actual flour and baking soda and stuff. But I think I need a few more rounds of pre-made pancake mix.