The first installment of when my father taught me, or failed to teach me, how to make pancakes.
I grew up in a household that lived off of Bisquick. Primarily, it was used for pancakes and still is to this day. Every Saturday and Sunday, I am awakened by my father shuffling with the pots and pans because the skillet that he needs is the one in the very back of the cabinet. While we have multiple skillets and at least eight different sizes of pots and pans, we only ever use two of them: the pancake skillet and the medium sauce pan. The only function of the other pans is to make loud, useless noises to signal my mother and me to wake up.
One Sunday morning when I was 11 years old, my father decided it was time for me to learn to make pancakes. He came into my room around 9am to wake me. While most people are woken up with a gentle shake, I was flipped violently from my mattress. The motion echoed those seen in action movies when a bomb is about to go off and the hero flips over a table for cover. I tumbled off the side of the bed, tangled in my blankets, with my cheek resting right next to my father’s shoe. Had this happened to a normal person, they would think “Earthquake” but my instant thought was, “Crap, what does dad want me to do now?” If I ever find myself in the middle of an earthquake, I will surely roll over while mumbling, “Five more minutes, dad.”
I flopped down the stairs without even lifting my feet while my father lunged and kicked up his heels. Morning was his prime time. I expected to sit down to start eating pancakes and just assumed that I had missed the opening number of the skillet shuffle wake up call. But there were no pancakes, just an empty stainless steel bowl, a wooden spoon, a spatula, and that bright yellow box of Bisquick. I immediately panicked; my father was planning to teach me how to do something. My father loves to teach me things and says that I will be more prepared than other people because of his lessons. I think he does it because he likes to see me cry. My father has gaps in his lessons where he assumes that I can read his mind and know what to do next. When I do not use my unknown gift of telepathy, he yells until I cry. When I decide to act before he tells me to do so, he yells until I cry. I always make it a point to stay well hydrated in preparation for these lessons.
I looked at the yellow box. Yellow is such a happy color that gives your eyes a vibrant handshake. And there is no sorrow in pancakes. No one eats pancakes angrily; they are eaten with a secret smile that savors the half melted butter swirling with the maple syrup. Every crumb is devoured and the leftover syrup is scooped up with a fork, even though most of it runs through the tines and dribbles on your chin. As a last ditch effort, you lick the plate not caring about what social implications will follow. These are pancakes! Everything about them oozes happiness.
And my father was going to beat the joy out of that innocent, fluffy breakfast choice.
To be resumed…
