This may be controversial. Some might be tempted to come out swinging in defense of hot breakfast lovers everywhere and I guess I wouldn’t blame you. But truth is truth and that’s all there is to it.

I hate pancakes.

I suppose more accurately I hate making pancakes. It’s been a pretty long time since I’ve actually eaten any so who knows, maybe I hate the pancakes themselves too, but let’s stay focused.

Pancake requests always come out of the blue around here. It didn’t help that there wasn’t any Bisquick in the house over the weekend but fine, whatever, we’ll just throw some baking stuff in a bowl and keep it moving.

It also doesn’t help that I can’t ever seem to remember how to set the temperature on my electric griddle. I’ve put a ridiculous amount of whiteout on that thing, an X Marks The Spot sort of strategy, yet we end up with a lukewarm griddle every single time until my mistake registers.

The first round of pancakes were undercooked and gummy. Couldn’t get those things to cook through to save my life. I tried and tried then flipped them onto a cooling rack and moved on to round two.

Round two cooked way too quickly yet didn’t seem to really cook at all if that’s even possible. We accelerated past golden brown and into charcoal-lite territory with lightning speed. Those things still wouldn’t flip, some parts sticking, other parts falling off the spatula.

By the time I got to round three there was cursing along with a diatribe about how I can cook SO MANY THINGS and bake SO MANY THINGS and yet pancakes flummox me. This isn’t a “since I’ve been gluten free” fiasco, it’s been like this forever. Making pancakes is the hands on science final I keep failing over and over and over again.

It’s painful. It’s torture. But I’m standing on nothing screams I love you like a plate of way-too-brown pancakes and a kitchen that looks like a batter bomb exploded in it.