Pancakes

I HATE PANCAKES. I love to eat pancakes, but I really hate making pancakes. I am a decent cook, I like to cook- but for the life of me I can not make a decent pancake. They are usually burnt on the outside, raw on the inside. I always smoke up the whole house which caused major alarm this time, with fire safety week so newly behind us.

My mother in law gave me pancake molds. She made pancakes using them, the girls liked them. Hearts. Butterflies.

H really wanted pancakes in the middle of the afternoon. I told her I wasn't going to make pancakes then. "But what ELSE can I have may-kel syrup with?" I told her I'd make them for dinner. Its been that kind of day, where you want to eat breakfast for dinner. Its rainy, gray. Horrific tantrums looped from dawn to dusk.

Anyway- my butterfly and heart pancakes? Not so much. Very Dalí. Surreal pancakes.

H, warily looking at the smoke in the kitchen:
"Mom? I smell gas.."
"No. No you don't. You smell smoke."
"Why is there so much smoke?"
"Because that's how I make pancakes"
"Does it smoke when Aunt K makes pancakes?"
(WHAT? My sister is many things, but in our family we like to harass her for not cooking. She should appreciate H busting her out of that family stereotype. Which I did not perpetuate, Aunt K. You will appreciate.)

Then H asks why the shapes didn't work when I made the pancakes. They worked when Dado made the pancakes... Yes, yes, I know. I had to level with her. Here's the thing, H. I'm not very good at making pancakes for some reason. I need to keep practicing. Here, this one sort of looks like a butterfly.

She tastes it. "Mom, these are so delicious, it doesn't matter if they don't have shapes. You should try one they're very good!" She's so good to me, sometimes.

They were pretty good. Flat, a bit spongy, but not raw or burnt. Progress.