It has been a quiet weekend here at the kamp. Hunters were out. I wonder if they are here to hunt or to sit around drinking and telling lies about past conquests. Doesn't really matter to me.
Well, it does matter when they use the men's room trashcan as a spittoon to accommodate their chew habits. The splatter ends up on the wall beside the trashcan. Then when they insist on having me let them in the store at 7:55 am to pay me for the weekend. Before I have enough coffee in my system. It just starts the day off wrong.
But, they paid and left and the day is balmy, if a little on the windy side and I get my coffee ........ Then the stomach-ache hits me. I always pronounce it the way Ray Romano did on that episode of "Everybody Loves Raymond". He sounded it out and proclaimed the word to be "sto-ma-cha-chee". I knew I needed to eat something, but nothing sounds good; well, nothing that I have here in my house. I ponder what is available to stuff in my gullet and come up blank. I finally decide that pancakes sound okay. I have mix in the cupboard.
I drag out the electric skillet and pour the mix and the water in the bowl. As I stir it with the wisk, I sling it onto my shirt. Grace, that's me. So I grab the dish towel to wipe the shirt and drop it in the dishwater. I am determined, though. I clean myself up and wring out the towel and put it in the laundry. Then as the skillet is heating up, I bump into the bowl and knock it over, losing about 1/3 of the batter on the counter. Still determined, I pour the batter on the skillet and then clean that mess up.
Spatula in hand I watch the tiny bubbles pop and prepare to flip the cakes. Plastic spatula for the non-stick surface. Yeah, they stuck. Like I super-glued them. With a lot of effort I manage to get them up and turn the mangled globs of batter over. So much for light, fluffy pancakes. I drizzled Aunt Jemima's best atop the mess and managed to eat around the chewier parts. The dogs enjoyed them immensely. I am thinking about just going back to bed.