“Pancakes are supposed to be round and golden,” the boy admonishes his mother as his sister weeps piteously in the dining room. “Not like that!”
“I just wanted pancakes,” the girl murmurs, a lone tear sliding down her cheek. “I wish Daddy were here.”
“So do I,” their mother says through clenched teeth.
“Daddy never burns the pancakes,” the boy says.
Their mother says nothing, though her teeth remained firmly clenched. She opens the cabinet door with her foot and flips the first two carbonized discs into the trash can before turning back to the fiendish work before her.
“That one isn’t too bad,” the boy says, watching his mother turn the next victim. “There’s a little bit of golden. I can eat that.”
“Thank you for being so understanding,” their mother says, her jaw relaxing ever-so-slightly.
“Hmph,” the girl says, arms akimbo, the tear having left in its wake a steely resolve to shun all burnt offerings.
“Here,” their mother says. She hands the girl the telephone. “Call Daddy and tell him all about this adventure.”
“No,” the girl says.
The mother dials and pushes the speakerphone icon.
“Hello?”
“Daddy!” the boy says. His voice is muffled by burnt pancake. “The pancakes are horrible and black because Mommy can’t make pancakes!”
“What was that?” their father asks.
“The pancakes are horrible!” the boy repeats, no longer impeded by the horrible pancake. “And Mommy says this is why you make the pancakes!”
“Oh,” their father says. It is possible that he was not expecting this conversation. “Where is Mommy?” as if expecting their mother to have fled for parts unknown.
“I’m right here,” says their mother, “making horrible pancakes.”
They finish their conversation and she flips a less-horrible pair of pancakes onto a plate, butters them, and delivers them to the girl. The girl eats the dark-golden ‘cakes without comment. Their mother silently rejoices.
“One more coming up,” she says to the boy.
“But Daddy always makes me two,” the boy says.
“You had two already,” their mother says.
“But they were burnt.”
“But they were two,” she says. “I have enough for one more.”
“Will it be golden?” he asks.
“I’ll try my best,” their mother says.
And she does, and it is.
I went on strike from dinner last night because of all. the. complaining.
It took me years, but I finally figured out the secret is…turn the pan on the low end of medium-low when you start to make the batter (which takes slightly longer than normal because of the extra four year old help) – by the time you get the first one in the pan, it is finally just the right temperature. Now I only burn them when I try to send a “quick” e-mail and forget I left it in the pan.
hahaa oh dear, i can just picture it Nichole, thanks for that 🙂 I hope the evening got better and see, you made a golden pancake after all 🙂
I adore your children, and I am so glad I do not live with them. Not that my kids are any easier to live with. I only survived making dinner last night (which was warmed-up leftovers), because my husband sensed the end was near and removed one of the whining offenders.