pancakes anyone?

My nine year old son ( I feel very old whenever I mention my child's age) had a sleep-over a while back. After an evening of 'Death Kill 2006' video games, a blanket-and-every-pillow-in-the entire-house fort, continuous food-intake, wrestling, GI Joe's, Lego's, etc., morning came at the usual time: 7:00 a.m..

I like to pretend that I don't have a load of responsibilities on Saturday mornings. It's my little game of denial I play every weekend. Even though my eyes tend to pop open before the hour of eight, I force myself to lay in bed for at least another hour to two hours. Sometimes I even fall back asleep. This particular morning, I must have really been exhausted, because I slept through what can only be described as Beacor meets Betty Crocker on cheap crack.

My son came bursting, all too enthusiastically for the time of day, into my bedroom announcing, "Mom! Get up!!! We made breakfast!!!" A note to parents/anyone: When the word "made" refers to the process of cooking, and is combined with a sentence also including any food-related words, and are being uttered by a child under the age of 12, you may have a reasonable, understandable and justifiable sense of panic take over your body.

I rolled out of bed and Sleestack-walked to the kitchen.

How to describe, fully, what horror awaited me...Picture, if you will, an entire kichen covered in a thick, white-ish paste...covered in multi-colored sprinkles, in syrup, honey, jam, strawberry and chocolate toppings...Picture pans with globs of shapeless gook left in them, and plates strewn with the remnants of all of the above. Picture the floor with slightly less gook, but more floury substance and sprinkles.

Now, combine this image with the faces of two of the cutest little boys you've ever seen. Then, just to insure that there was no earthly way for me to be mad, picture my son saying, "Mom...We made "lump-cakes!" "And we saved you some!!!"

I'm not sure how they actually cooked the multi-sided pancakes...if you could call them that. They must have rolled them around sort of like large, white meatballs. All I do know, is that they were definitely "lump-cakes." Under-cooked in the middles, and slightly brownish-tan in color - (on some sides).

Out of parental obligation, I tried a bite. They were the second worst pancakes I've ever had: The "worst prize" goes to the Roseburg, Oregon Denny's - whose pancakes always tasted of eggs and plastic.

The pancake saga is not yet over, my friends. Oh no! In fact, it was re-visited just this past weekend when my son, once again, had a sleep-over (same friend). Once again I pretended that I was an Egyptian Queen, and should not be awakened and/or dragged from her chambers any earlier than 9:30 or 10 o'clock a.m..

This time, I was awakened to, "Mom, we're going to make pancakes!" You'd think I'd have enough sense to run screaming into the kitchen, trying to stop such endeavours...But, oh no! I thought the two apprentice chefs must surely have leared a few culinary lessons from their previous experience, and should be given another chance.

The second time I was awakened, it was to the question, "Mom, do you have to put eggs in the pancake batter?" Red lights and warning bells should have been going off in my brain - but instead I just groggily answered, "No," and left it at that.

The next thing I knew, I was being summoned to the kitchen. "Mom, something's wrong...The pancakes taste terrible!" The Nile was miles behind me by this point, as I slipper-slothed it to the kitchen. Oh. My. God. As in, "God, please give me the strength and courage to clean this untolerably huge mess!!!!!"

I'm going to ask you, once again, to try and picture if you will, the day-mare that was my kitchen: 1 bag flour. Misc. amounts of said flour strewn all over the floor, counters, coffee-pot, stove, and anything else withing a 10 foot radius. 2 plates, with pancake-esque looking objects floating in large pools of syrup and honey. 1 - 3 bites missing out of said pancake-esque looking objects. 1 bowl with aprox. 2 cups flour and one sad looking egg in it (hidden underneath the cutting board in the sink - which I would discover much later, towards the end of my cleaning excursion).

Now, you have to remember....I'm groggy. A little slow on the up-take. But as soon as I saw the bag of flour, I quickly grasped the scenario. "Sky," I said (my son's name), "this is a bag of flour - not the pancake mix!" Long pause. Laughs. "No wonder they tasted so bad!" (...ya think?)

Needless to say I had a good chuckle, made the boys pancakes (good tasting ones) and eggs, and made myself some strong coffee which I drank whilst cleaning up said kitchen for the next hour.

And, needless to say, that was the last time I will be letting my son "make pancakes."