daveslifehacker

Saturday Pancakes

I let my wife sleep in this morning. She was so tired after a week dealing with 1/2 day training and 1/2 day teaching elementary aged kids at the school. I went in to check in on her after I heard her alarm go off.

The night before I told her that I was trying an experiment. I was going to change my internal dialog when she makes a request. Normally, when she asks something of me, my back stiffens, my jaw clenches, I look up into the middle distance a little off to the side and think of a creative sarcastic comment that I will never say out loud. I calm myself and respond politely on good days, and on bad days my inner demon shows a little ankle.

She really has no clue what I am really thinking. She doesn’t need to know. It’s my problem. The words, “Oh great…”, “Is she serious?”, and my favorite, “her mouth is writing checks that my back has to cash”, whirl around in my head as she carries on. She wonders why I only hear half of what she says. I stare at her blankly, she repeats her request several times after looking at my response. It’s not that I have ADHD, It’s because two people are talking at once, and my brain is louder. I want peace.

I am trying to get that jerk in my head to be quiet for a minute. I walk in the room after she bangs off the alarm. I kiss her forehead. Without opening her eyes, she asks if I can make pancakes. I don’t really want pancakes but, that’s okay, she does and Dave’s Inner Demon has a gag order. I can do this. I can hear my daughter and her friend who spent the night making noise downstairs.

I start to make pancakes, but I’d rather not. Carolyn likes them plain, but I like to try new things. Besides, if I am going to have to make them, I will make them awesome.  I add an egg, some oil, brown sugar, kosher salt, and finally cinnamon. The recipe calls for none of these things. I cook a test one. It’s pretty good. No, it’s really good. I remember we have some frozen huckleberries. I pour the batter onto the 375° griddle and I sprinkle about a dozen or so frozen huckleberries on top of each pancake. They sizzle when I flip them over. I remember she likes them plain so I withhold some batter for when she gets out of the shower. They are not actually plain since I added all my enhancements, but I am the cook and she will have to deal with it. Oops, a little demon skin is showing.

My daughter and I and her friend sit down at the table. We have huckleberry syrup compote that we smother on top of the steaming huckleberry pancakes and melted butter. We eat as my wife is slamming dresser drawers looking for the perfect clothes for the day. I am back in the kitchen cleaning up when she walks in, dressed for Saturday chores with wet hair.

I warm the griddle back up as she get’s herself a glass of juice. I say, “Are you ready for your pancake?”. “No, thanks, I don’t feel like pancakes.” she deadpans. She is serious. “Why… ehh.. W-W Why did you have me make pancakes then?” I stammer. “I like to think of others” she responds. I suddenly remember how my inner demon got so strong. However, I think my inner demon has passed out, because I started laughing.  I tell her I didn’t feel like pancakes either. I laugh more, only louder. She starts laughing too. We laughingly recount our little morning conversation to each other and savor the irony.

Huckleberry Pancakes.

I forget my experiment. I remember how much I love her, and the laughter is sweeter than huckleberries.