This past weekend, we discovered a new phrase that has probably never been uttered at the breakfast table.
As I think about my childhood and all the stories I remember, I am sometimes amazed at the magnitude of the blunders I have made. I have pulled some doozies. In many ways it’s a good thing, though, because it provides fodder for stories that I can tell my kids; it also provides some fun writing material.
Well, a natural thought is to wonder to myself, “What happens when I run out of stories? Will I need to resort to fiction (for which I feel ill-equipped) or to poetry (for which I feel even more inadequate)? Survival can be achieved through a well crafted sonnet, but I don’t think all the limericks in the world about genies who are meanies in yellow bikinis can a career make.
Well, you’ll be glad to know — at least I was relieved, much to the delight of my kids and with perhaps a little angst from my wife — that I’m still capable of pulling off silly escapades, albeit unwittingly.
This Saturday past, a cool blustery day in the Piedmont of the Old North State, was a prime example. That particular day, as with most Saturday mornings, my four darling children anticipated our weekly feast of whole wheat buttermilk pancakes.
You see, pancakes are one of my three specialties in my life; the other two, of course, are homemade syrup (a must for the pancakes), and my propensity for blunders as mentioned earlier. Yes, there you have it. All modesty aside, I make great pancakes, I make awesome syrup, and of course I frequently find myself in the most comical of situations.
I will provide the pancake recipe someday. This story isn’t really about pancakes, per se. I do have stories about pancakes I could tell — like the time I made my first batch ever and forgot to put in the milk. They were thick pancakes, causing my mother and siblings to burst into hysterics and run out of the room before they died laughing. Only Dad remained to eat the whole wheat bricks with me.
Anyway, I also, as mentioned earlier, make syrup. Now, it’s not real maple syrup. My brother has made real maple syrup, and it took nearly all the maple trees on the east coast to produce a gallon of the wonderful stuff. No, my syrup consists of some boiling water, a bunch of sugar (white and brown), and a little maple flavoring. But this story isn’t really about the recipe.
That made me laugh! I can\’t imagine that it was bad thing having nice smelly breath at the end of pancakes. We do waffles on Sunday, and I will have to try making my own syrup with them-sans the clove mouthwash. 
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