As you can probably tell from the superfluous, silent consonants in the name, Provost is French. In fact my parents are both of French descent so subsequently I am too. French...Canadian. There is almost nothing from my childhood that I can mark as having been an homage to my heritage, I'm an all-American girl, save one thing. Crepes. I grew up in a household where we ate crepes for dinner from time to time. Slathered in molasses or maple syrup. I know, right? Whatever, we're all pretty healthy now. My dad would man the stovetop, dispensing my grandmother's (and maybe even her grandmother's, I don't know) crepe mix into multiple hot pans to keep us 5 kids steadily supplied with the eggy, floury goodness. I love crepes and one of my favorite things about my visit to France was ordering them hot off the giant griddle from the crepe street vendors in Lyon. Yum.
Recently I introduced Kate & Sarah to the thrill of crepes, though they get them for breakfast because I cannot quite make myself serve them for dinner.
I hold my dad's esteemed position at the stove over my beloved 12" cast iron skillet* (Jeremiah's a mutt with everything but French in him, he may not handle crepes. No sir.) The girls like their crepes with a dollop of Nutella, folded into a square and then sliced into slivers.
They devour them. It fills me with delight. So sometimes, on the mornings when it's my turn to take them to daycare, I make crepes. I tell them no, they can't have more than 2, but am secretly thrilled when they cry and beg for more and openly thrilled when they request them randomly when it's been days since we've had them and there are no signs of crepes in sight. Kate calls them "grapes", but don't try offering her grapes. Kate don't play that, yo.
*Kevin and Jude gave us this wonderful new-fangle fancypants pan for rapid-fire crepe making. I cannot get the hang of it and always end up returning to my wonderfully seasoned skillet. The special pan holds a spot in our cabinets for the next time I get the guts to make a change.