Pancake Authorization

I am not approved to make pancakes for breakfast in this house. Only Daddy is allowed. When Keith was sick with a cold a few weeks ago I got up early and took on the task of making Saturday morning breakfast. I figured that he needed a few more hours of sleep and that surly I could handle making breakfast, what's a little pancake batter? I make every other meal in this house daily so should be easy, eh?

No. My lifetime cooking credentials (since I was 8) were not enough for the girls. When they saw me banging around in the kitchen and noticed Daddy was not around they became inquisitory.

Leah: "Whatcha doin' Mom?"

Mom: "Making breakfast."

Leah: "Breakfast?" Eyebrow pops upward.

Mom: "Yes."

Olivia: "Pancakes?" Both eyebrows pop up and eyes are wide open.

Mom: "Yes. I am making pancakes."

Olivia: "Why?!" with a very concerned look on her face

Mom: "Because it's Saturday and we always have pancakes on Saturdays."

Leah: "But, where's Daddy?" Slightly panicked looking around the kitchen hoping to find her father hiding under the cabinets.

Mom: "Still asleep. He wasn't feeling well last night so I think he needs a little more rest this morning."

Leah: "Daddy's sick?" Getting worried at this point.

Mom: "He seemed like he was feeling a little sick. If he rests he may feel better."

Leah: "So. You're going to make breakfast?" She's re-verifying the facts of the situation.

Mom: "Yes."

Olivia: "But Daddy makes the pancakes." Very concerned and panicked.

Mom: "Yes. Usually he does, but he needs to rest and you need to eat."

The location of their father became very vital to the success of breakfast. Two furrowed brows stared back at me. Blink, blink, blink. The girls must SAVE breakfast. They turned to one another and in unison called "DAAAAAADD!" The backs of their heads were disappearing around the corner as their stomping rumbled the house. They continued to scream for Daddy on their way upstairs. I heard the ruckus work itself out upstairs.

Shortly after the noise quieted Daddy made his presence. "Whataya think you're doin'?" I explained that I was going to make breakfast so that he could get some rest. Thankfully for the sake of all those living in this house I did not progress too far with the making of pancakes. He looked at me and asked "Do you have pancake authorization?" No. No I did not. He shooed me away and saved breakfast.

Who has pancake authorization in your house?


Sydney said…
Pete. He also has egg, waffle and crepe authorization. You know, I can whip up a gourmet dinner with nothing but frozen chicken, the dregs of a bottle of $3 Chardonnay, a quarter of an old onion, a teaspoon of lemon juice and whatever butter I can scrape off the bottom of the butter dish. But I cannot make breakfast. Lord knows I've tried! My eggs come out stiff or runny - whichever is worse in the given situation. My pancakes are flat and either mostly white or burnt. My waffles are sticky and yeasty - how is that even possible?? I do not attempt crepes. Pete, on the other hand, who hates pancakes, can make them lighter than air. His waffles are like little clouds of deliciousness covered in syrup. His eggs are fluffy and moist and just perfect. And his crepes... Not too thick, not too thin, just a little crispness on the edges and perfectly golden brown. And to top it all off: he flips them in the pan with a flick of his wrist. Breakfast and a show! This is not to say he can't cook anything else; Pete is a great cook when given the opportunity. It's just that I rarely give him the opportunity because I do enjoy it so. Except for breakfast, because I also am not authorized.
Yvonne said…
I should come over to your house for breakfast. Crepes! I love a good crepe. Mmmmmm. In their thin crisp goodness.

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