Flipping Pancakes

This morning I was the perfect picture of motherhood. Padding around in my fuzzy slippers, leaving the newspaper in a heap on the couch, I was inspired to make the boys some pancakes. This is a big deal for me.

Reason #1- For whatever reason, I really hate cooking breakfast. I’m a cereal and toast kind of gal. Frying bacon, flipping pancakes, and scrambling eggs is just not on my agenda. This is usually my husband’s gig, but only on weekends. You can imagine Chop's excitement when I made the announcement, "Mama's making us pancakes for breakfast!" Treats like those are usually reserved for lazy Sunday mornings or overnights and Grammie and Grampy's.

Reason #2 I cannot cook pancakes. As simple as they may seem, I always manage to screw them up. Either they aren’t cooked on the inside but perfect on the outside, or the edges are burned in the sizzling scraps of butter.

But for whatever reason, I decided to whip up a batch. Maybe it was the fact that Chops is now what I like to call a serial snacker, especially since he’s gained the muscle to strong arm the fridge door open. All day long, he’s dragging out bits of food, taking a few bites, then chucking the remnants in the sink. Then, ten minutes later, it begins all over again with a new delicacy. Perhaps with pancakes for breakfast, his stomach would be effectively coated for the rest of the day. (By the way, it only lasted him about 45 minutes before he started ransacking the fridge again.)

Maybe it is because Bubba has crossed over into the realm of finger foods and he has never had a taste of a mushy sweet hot cake pass his lips. Everyday for this future linebacker is a journey into the joys of people food. More times then not, he shakes his head violently at the Gerber fare, in favor of whatever is on the dinner table. Let's just say the Chipotle Chicken we had for dinner last week didn't treat his poor tum too well at 3:00 am.

So, out comes the Bisquik, the eggs, the milk, and the dash of cinnamon. As I whisked, Bubba clutched my cotton pj bottoms and Chops sang about the yummy pancakes to come from the kitchen table.

As I was mixing the gloppy concoction and coating the pan, then pouring and flipping, an image came into my mind, vivid as the gleam of Bubba’s new baby teeth. One of sitting at my aunt’s counter, much like Chops was doing, and following her own motherly dance around her kitchen. She had decided on a whim to bake chocolate chip cookies. I wasn’t nearly as young as Chops, more like eight or nine. But I just remember being amazed because she mixed this seemingly elaborate recipe of butter, eggs, various powders, chips, etc...without even following a recipe. Each scoop of flour and sugar, spoonful of baking soda and vanilla extract, was dumped into the large bowl with a certain rhythmic confidence. In that moment, I wanted to grow up and be just like her.

So, I admit, the pancakes won’t win any gourmet chef acclaim. But the look on both of the boys’ faces as they devoured them, crumb after crumb, filled me with a sort of motherly, Betty Crocker-ish pride. Bubba moaned and squealed with each new mouthful. His eyes followed me around the kitchen, and he looked at me expectantly when his tray was cleared once again. The smell of butter and cinnamon and maple syrup stayed on Chops all morning. Every time he’d come near I’d beg him for a kiss, just to breath in his sweetness. So what if flipping pancakes only bought me 45 minutes of Chops forgetting about the contents of our fridge? That was just enough time to set up shop on the floor with the boys, and to play-fight with them for each section of the paper. The morning was a warm glow on an otherwise dull day.