I tell him, "Jesus Fucking Christ, we've had fucking pancakes five fucking days in a row. Aren't you goddamned tired of the fucking pancakes yet?"
OK, maybe I don't say that. This morning we had pancakes and turkey bacon and I made an omelet with avocado and cheddar for myself. I first had one of those in Cleveland Heights. Or maybe it was Shaker Heights. Hard to say. I'd never heard of such a thing before, but damn it was good.
My son insists on mixing the batter, although I measure all the stuff out for him. He also insists on pouring the batter on the griddle and flipping the pancakes. My role in the process is basically to make sure he doesn't burn his arms off on the stove. The best part is that he uses chocolate chips to make smiley faces on all the pancakes.
7 comments:
You're a super dad. Is that your kitchen?
You make me want to have kids.
LB: I only give you the highlights.
MA: Thanks and it is.
I hope you take some photographs of your little son making pancakes. That's the kind of simple memory that is the most precious.
when i tried to teach my little brother to make pancakes i told him we needed to wait till the pan was hot enough and he ran over to the stove and stuck his hand right onto the scalding hot pan. ouch.
That posting made me totally smile.
Picture me with chocolate chips in a semi-sweet semi-circle on my face.
If he were begging for grape nuts and wheat germ, I might start to wonder...
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