Flopjacks

When you think of flapjacks you think of...

When you think of a mom making you fresh flapjacks in the morning, you may think of this...

Well, June Cleaver, I am not. I thought I would wake up this morning and make pancakes from scratch for my precious family, just like they deserve. That was my first mistake; thinking I could just wake up and do anything that requires coordination. It wasn't pretty folks. One is not supposed to test the heat of the griddle by nodding off and drooling on the hot plate.

It seems as though my gimpy whisking hand doesn't wake up until at least 10am, so I sweet talked The Head Crayon into doing a little whisking action. Let me tell ya gals, there is nothing sexier than a man with sleepy eyes, standing in his boxer doing a little batter fluffing with kids hanging on his legs. OK, well maybe there is....but that was awful close.

There is a secret to making pancakes that I have now learned. It's all about the bubble-lage. (Yes, that is very much a word) There must be a specific number of bubbles on the cooking batter before you flip your flapjack. One less bubble than required and your batter will not cook all the way through. One more bubble than required and you have just made new tires for a Tonka truck that will not wear out.

I have not harnessed enlightenment or pancake bubble-lage. My pancakes had creamy centers. They weren't supposed to have creamy centers. Buzz proclaimed them nasty and demanded cereal. The Head Crayon tried to nuke them into at least a medium-well consistency. I ate one because of pride and Belly (Oh my precious Belly that can make the worst cook feel not so bad) ate 3 before we could stop her and we did try to stop her.

So my flapjacks were more like flopjacks and I have made the promise to keep trying until I perfect it. The Head Crayon told me to just let it go....he literally begged with tears in his eyes