Pancakes

Early one morning in the dim light of a pine forest, I felt a presence. No, make that several. I peered up through the mesh openings of my two-person dome tent. The wide-open eyes of four or five cub scouts met my gaze.

"We're hungry, and you are supposed to make breakfast. Sean says you can flip pancakes higher than anyone can in the whole world! We don't believe him, but he says it is true," said the scouts.

I nudged Sean. My sleepy, eight-year old son was not an early riser, but it seemed the rest of the Cub Scout den was. When I crawled out of the tent, I noticed that none of the other adults were out and about, so I sent the boys to get everyone up. They scampered away.

Sean confirmed that he had told his friends that I was "numero uno", when it came to pancakes. I had been elevated to hero status. I did not want to disappoint my son and the other scouts. What was I to do?

By the time I made it to the fire ring, the scouts that woke me up had finished waking up the rest of the camp. The energized boys needed focus to contain their exuberance. I sent them looking for sticks and fallen limbs, after all we did need a campfire for cooking. Meanwhile, I lit a bed of charcoal, filled a coffeepot with water, and settled in to make breakfast. Juice, bacon, and pancakes were on the menu.

The boys returned sooner than I thought they would. Each had a handful of sticks, and a couple of boys were dragging a log that was way too big for the fire ring. To gain a little more time, I requested that the smaller twigs and sticks be neatly arranged for future use. For the big log, I asked them to arrange it across from the fire ring. In about fifteen minutes, we had a fairly neat pile of sticks, and the boys had a log to sit on to watch, while I made breakfast. The charcoal turned white, the coffee started perking, bacon was sizzling in an iron skillet, and I was still pondering what to do about my son's fantastical story of my pancake-flipping prowess.

While I finished the bacon, I had the boys wash up and make the pancake batter. One of the other adults helped with that mess. I pulled my trusty cast iron griddle out of the dry box and began seasoning it with some of the bacon grease. We were, after all, out of sight of the dietician moms. When the boys finished the batter, I asked them to grab their plates and to take a seat on the log. As is typical, the first pancake on the griddle stuck, and I had to trash it. Immediately, a chorus of "told you so" rang through the forest. Well, I applied another swipe of bacon grease and started two rows of four pancakes. The edges bubbled and turned crispy. I flipped each pancake over to reveal perfect golden brown disks. Another minute and the pancakes were ready for serving.

The moment of truth had arrived. I asked one of the boys to get ready. I inserted my turner under one of the cakes, and with a full arm motion and a flick of the wrist I tossed a pancake high into the air. That pancake flipped over and over and on its way up brushed a limb about ten feet off the ground. At its apex it was suspended in time for a nanosecond or two. The downward arch of the pancake's trajectory carried the pancake across the few feet between fire ring and log bench. With a satisfying but muffled splat, the high-flying pancake landed perfectly flat in the center of the boy's plate. Not wanting to tempt fate, I quickly served up the remaining pancakes to the astonished campers.

In a voice as clear and pure as a bell Sean simply said, "I told you so."

Fun in the Sun -- Part 2

Due to popular demand, I decided to "continue" the story, a story of stealthy revenge.

To avoid the problem of the blog posting the conclusion in front of the original text, I added the conclusion in the comments section of the original article. Savvy readers will know where to find it. The rest of you will just have to wonder.

So, here's a shotglass of Kool-Aid to you.

Fun in the Sun at NTC, Fort Irwin, CA

The dirt and grime of nine days on the floor of the great Mojave Desert was taking its toll. With water rationing in effect, I had not come close to a shower, since we left the pine studded forests of Georgia. Dust was everywhere, in everything, on everything. Cascading sweat circles stained my shirt from armpit to waist. The dust was so permeating that I could no longer distinguish the black of my boots from the camouflage pattern of my trousers. My short-cropped hair was the color of desert dried and parched lakebeds. Had it not been for the Rommel-style goggles, I would have been blind from the wind driven dust. The crow’s feet around my eyes were darkly stained by trails of tears, seeping though the dust from behind the protective goggles.

Even with the constant dust and heat, I found the desert an awesome place. I witnessed two-foot long lizards running on their hind legs; scorpions - black as coal – at least six inches in length; tarantulas larger than the spread of a man’s hand. At night I saw packs of coyotes scurrying for cover and always on the lookout for a scrap of a meal dropped by a careless soldier; the sunsets had more color than one can imagine; and stars – I have never seen so many stars in my life. The Milky Way would swoop from the horizon and on past the midnight zenith. The environment was unmatched in its diversity.

Having attended a commanders briefing and having finished a reconnaissance of potential tactical positions for my firing battery, my jeep driver and I headed back to the battery’s current location. The battery was some twenty miles away. The drive was dark – no headlights allowed - and many hours had passed, since our last meal from a plastic bag of assorted dried fruits and chopped, pressed, formed, and packaged meat. We were looking forward to the promise of a new selection of plastic meals and fresh water. Earlier in the day I had confirmed that a much needed 500 gallons of the good stuff had been delivered.

When we arrived at the firing battery encampment, I sent my driver to chow and made my way to the fire direction center to check in with my lieutenants, get unit status, and pass along the instructions for the next day’s live fire activities. To my surprise, Lieutenants Nick and Joe had prepared a shower for me. Hanging from a crossbeam between two command tracks, suspended over a wooden pallet, was an Australian shower – a four-gallon, canvas bag with a showerhead attached to the bottom of the bag. The way it works, you fill the bag with water, turn the valve on the shower head to get a dribble of water, close the valve, lather up, and then open the valve to rinse. It is amazing how little water is used, if the procedure is done correctly. To say the least, I was overwhelmed and grateful for the chance to rid myself of a multiple layers of dust and sweat and a closely following odor of stale billy goat.

When the briefings were complete, I pulled a clean uniform out of my rucksack and shook off the collected dust. I grabbed a towel and a bar of soap and headed to the makeshift shower. I stripped down to dog tags, stepped up on the pallet, and turned the valve to start the trickle of water. Dark rivulets of dirt ran down my face and body. I turned off the water and began a lathering scrub. I detected a slightly sweet taste and thought the soap I was using had had a run in with the toothpaste in my bag. With little concern I continued the shower and started the rinse cycle. It was at this point that I heard a muffled giggle from the far side of one of the command tracks. As I rinsed, the laughter increased, and the rinse water grew sweeter and sweeter. By this time there must have been two lieutenants and a gunnery sergeant rolling in the dirt between the creosote bushes. Grape Kool-Aid had been mixed into my shower water. I should have known that the prepared shower was too good to be true. I finished the shower never saying a word.

In a sleeping bag for the rest of the short night, I dreamt sweet, sweet, grape scented dreams, dreams of payback on a day, when my unsuspecting officers would least expect it. I bided my time, planning the revenge that would be a dish served cold by a cold, cold-hearted battery commander.