Peter Pancake Syndrome

October 30, 2009


I am mostly an adult. When prompted, I will cling onto my rights as a consenting, consciously thinking adult. I do adult-like things. I read the newspaper most of the time, I vote, I pay bills (some of them), I can rent a car or a hotel room, I support myself with a job, I pick people’s babies up and put them on my hip when they’re crawling around my feet at parties, I get served in bars, and I’m damn sure one of these days I’ll be all too aware I can be held accountable for my actions in a court of law. I am an adult. I think.

There are, of course, a few parts of me that still stubbornly cry “I don’t wanna grow up!” with a vehemence that startles people and often leaves whatever room I’m in a mess. First and foremost is the desire to experiment in the kitchen. Note that this is in no way a desire to practice food-making as a gourmet art. It is a desire to mix really messy stuff together—anything will do—and see what I can come up with. And lick the spoon, of course.

(I draw attention to the Great Much-Easy-Mac-Plus-Lots-of-Spaghettios-Equals-EasyMaccios Debacle of ’05. Ill-advised, by the way. Not sure what we came up with in the end, but the two tastes effectively canceled one another out, leaving nothing but an oddly powdery but still soggy, flavorless chewiness.)

Today I decided to make chocolate chip pancakes. Mmmm. Dinner. But to my horror, upon entering my kitchen, I realized that I had no milk and no chocolate chips! (The pancakes weren’t the add-water kind.) Now, for some, this would be the end of Thursday night chocolate chip pancakes. But no, gentle reader, no.

So, I pour some pancake mix into a bowl. Then two eggs. No worries. I have eggs, and I’m pretty sure they’re even still good. They seem a normal color, and neither of them resembles a baby chicken in any way. Two eggs in the bowl. Now it calls for one cup milk. Hmm. I pour in some powdered Coffeemate, a bunch of water, and spray in a shitload of whipped cream. That has to count for milk. It has to.

Now for chocolate chips. Um, um, um. I have a box of brownie mix. This is the same thing as putting in chocolate chips, of course, since chocolate is arguably in both. So I put in a half a box of brownie mix and stir. This might have been all right, if the lack of milk and the addition of half a box of brownie mix didn’t make this thing one big, bowl-shaped solid. Huh. So I add another egg. And some spray in more whipped cream. And add some vanilla. Cause, why not? But it’s still sort of thick. You know what can probably go in there to make it thinner and also much messier? Vegetable oil. So in that goes! Along with some more water, some more Coffeemate, and some more brownie mix.

I now have half-assed ingredients all over the kitchen and mud-brown batter all the way from the sink, across the stove, to the cabinet. And some in my hair, which makes the batter on my face not so ridiculous. I then cook these things up, pancake-style, and—

Oh. My. God. My inner child is a genius. I have invented the best breakfast-for-dinner food ever. It is like cake, but like pancakes. It is pan cake without a cake pan. It is awesomeness in my mouth.

As it turns out, there is a reason parts of me will never grow up. They are meant to make brilliant, delicious messes that no serious adult would dare to make. Pan cakes.

I still have batter in my hair. It’s awesome.

3 Responses to “Peter Pancake Syndrome”

  1. Becka said

    Oh my god.

    Oh my god.

    I love you.

  2. Molly said

    Send me the recipe?

    *said in the style of “I’m Ron Burgundy?”*

  3. […] the odd ingredients I had left in my fridge and cabinets until pay day (see my previous blog post, The Peter Pancake Syndrome, for an excellent example of past ingredient resourcefulness) I managed to pioneer for myself a […]

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: