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."