We are staying at my parents’ house for the rest of the week/weekend as we attempt to find housing for the big move which is coming up fast. So far we’ve had lots of great prospects but unfortunately there seems to be something odd or not workable each time we get close….but that’s a whole other “Dr. Phil”.
Last night while making pancakes for supper (with fresh blueberries….. *drools*) we needed more butter. Mom got some out & put it in the microwave to soften it. She placed it next to me as I dropped 2 piping hot pancakes onto my plate (everybody else had already had their first round). I grabbed the knife & proceeded to find that the butter was NOT soft…. ”Well it’s not frozen any more”, Mom retorted to my observation. ”You know how I feel about butter on my pancakes.” With the long suffering sigh only a mother possesses, “Yes I know….” Growing up Mom always made the best pancakes (she still does) and would always spread just the right amount of butter on each one, letting it melt into the golden brown before adding the syrup. They were always light & fluffy, melting sweetly on your tongue. It was the best thing in the world to wake up to the smell of the griddle heating for pancakes. Sometimes we’d get pancakes with faces or ones that looked like Mickey Mouse.
Here’s the story of me & my pancakes….
When I was in kindergarten we had Cowboy Day. Everybody dressed up like a cowboy or cowgirl & we had flapjacks. I was so excited for Cowboy Day…Mom even made me a special outfit to wear with my boots (I think I even took a six shooter cap gun…..my how times have changed. Nowadays a kid taking a cap gun to school would surely be arrested & placed on a terrorist watch list) & of course I had a red handkerchief too. It was all fun & games til it came time to eat. One of the mothers who was helping gave me my flapjacks….with a big blob of butter in the center (all cold & unmelty) and promptly doused it in an overly large amount of cold syrup. I was aghast! Never had I witnessed such an atrocity….so I did what any 6 year old would do…pitched the mother of all hissy fits. I was adamant that I would not eat a lukewarm flapjack with a cold butter blob & enough syrup in which to bathe. There was no admonition, no threat, no “There are starving kids in Africa” speech that would move me….I wasn’t going to eat that flapjack.
I don’t remember what happened after that…it’s possible that I just went without & if so I would have done it with a sense of deep satisfaction at getting my way. I do know that upon my return home that day Mom asked how my day had gone. Bursting into tears I recounted my tale of woe & flapjacks improperly prepared. No doubt Mom comforted me & reassured me that it was indeed okay to not eat the flapjacks. I am equally sure that I was told to be more polite about not wanting to eat something.
To this day I have a difficult time ordering pancakes in a restaurant because often times they come in a haphazard pile (pancakes should be neatly stacked) with a giant blob of butter in the center. At least they provide me the option of adding the syrup on my own.
