mmmmm... Blueberry Pancakes!

Blueberry Pancakes, or: A Case Study in Domestic Anarchy

I woke up foolishly optimistic, which was my first mistake. Blueberry pancakes, I thought. Celebrate the national day of sugary sweetness.  A gentle weekend ritual. A wholesome activity. A bonding moment. I was gonna go full blown domestic goddess and everything. This belief lasted approximately twelve seconds—right up until the gremlins woke up.  I should really know better at this point, shouldn't I?

I used to believe blueberry pancakes were a simple, wholesome breakfast. 

Flour. Eggs. Milk. Warmth. Joy.

Then I acquired a horde (devilry still sounds weird) of gremlins—small, loud, and aggressively/violently committed to chaos—who have turned pancake morning into a recurring lesson in hubris.

They came in a stampede of tiny feet and bad intentions, immediately rejecting the concept of “a gentle family breakfast” in favor of something more interpretive. Maude attempted to “help” by opening every cabinet at once. Duncan poured blueberries directly onto the floor “so they could breathe.” Alan was whisking nothing with profound intensity, offended when informed that bowls usually contain ingredients.  How rude of us to point it out.

Flour achieved flight. Milk escaped containment. The eldest human child—who had been asleep and innocent—was somehow buttered.  I suspect I may owe them big time for this. 

I say stupid things like, “Please don’t lick the spatula,” and “Why is the stove sticky?” and, at my lowest point, “Who does this belong to and why haven't I seen it before?” The kitchen devolved into a sticky, purple-speckled battlefield, and the pancakes—those sweet, round lies were still nowhere close to existing 36 minutes later. 

At some point, one of them (I'm not sure who, but suspect it was Bob) screamed: It's SCIENCE! while flipping batter directly onto the counter. It seems this was meant as full & unquestionable justification for the anarchy that ensued.

I issued instructions. The gremlins heard them as suggestions not to be heeded. “Please don’t touch the stove” translated into “press all the buttons like you’re launching a space shuttle;” “One cup of blueberries” became “let’s see how many fit in the wrangler's pockets;” (The answer:  Possibly 16 although its hard to be sure, given the state they're in.  I'm going to look like I'm turning into a colour-confused smurf until further notice, apparently.) 

This is when survival instincts kicked in.

At some point, I stop fighting it. I retreat. I slip into the pantry, clutching a battered novel like a survival manual, jamming earplugs into my ears as the sounds of nihilism reverberated through the house: clanging pans, dramatic accusations, the unmistakable splatt-crasshh of something expensive hitting the floor. I read one paragraph eight times, absorbing none of it, but feeling spiritually nourished nonetheless.

From my bunker, I reflected on the myth of the serene pancake morning. Pancakes are not peaceful. Pancakes are a social experiment designed to reveal how quickly order collapses when provided with sugar, autonomy and a skillet.  They're one of those parental challenges, like Sudocrem vs Expensive Electricals that are a study in not throwing small life forms out of the nearest window.

From behind the door comes the soundtrack of anarchy: shrieks of laughter, a pan hitting the floor, and someone shouting, “IT’S FINE” in a tone that suggests it absolutely is not.

The kitchen is destroyed. The gremlins are victorious, faces smeared blue and proud. And somehow—against all logic—they’re happy, fed, and demanding seconds.  So... that's a bonus.

The kitchen now resembles the aftermath of a low-budget fantasy battle, 8 days into a war with at least one poltergeist. Flour drifts through the air like a cursed snowstorm. Blueberries—blueberries—are everywhere except the bowl. One gremlin is stirring with the wrong end of the spoon, another is “helping” by cracking eggs directly onto the counter, shells included, and a third has wandered off entirely, trailing batter footprints toward the living room like some sort of gluten-based cryptid.

Eventually, Eventually, I emerge. The gremlins declared victory and summoned me to witness the results: 

the pancakes are… abstract. 

Misshapen, overcooked, undercooked, aggressively blueberry-forward discs of destruction.  I was press-ganged into a taste test. It tasted like resilience. 

I declared myself full after a bite and a half. 

Next weekend, we’re having cereal. I will quite possibly still hide in the pantry until the production has completed.  Rocking and tapping my head, possibly. Send snacks.