Pancake Perils

Assembling the ingredients to make a yummy, hot breakfast of pancakes and bacon, I started by cracking two eggs into a bowl, and suspended some shell fragments into the egg-whites, while the bacon quickly sailed into the trash as the zip lock released a cloud of what Porky Pig's road-kill remnants might smell like after two days on the asphalt.


My hand emerged from the cupboard around the neck of the Aunt Jemima syrup bottle and she grabbed me, my hand suffering Aunt J's wrath, stuck to the plastic in ooey-gooey adhesion, incurring Aunt J's penalty for not wiping the spout clean after her last pour onto my breakfast fare.

This didn't seem to be going so well, 0-for-3 thus far.

When I withdrew the measuring cup from the box of Krusteaz (like Bisquick), the powdery premix was punctuated by little black something-'ruthers...like periods with feet I couldn't see, schussing among the moguls of mix.

Jemima got her wipe, the mix hit the trash, the eggs were eaten by the disposer. and a cleaned measuring cup and egg bowl returned to their at-the-ready positions.

Breakfast fast-food from drive-through places rocks until a coworker's pointed finger announces you've arrived with a grease trail's testament to your failed home-cooked breakfast, stained right there onto the front of your $55 work shirt, but permitting you to do the Inverse-Deja-Vu-Commute (without pay, and marked "Tardy" by Mr. Viggenfleus upon reentry).