This one is dedicated to the newly married Jeff.
I had just gotten married, and I was still in that “I’ve got to impress her to keep her around” mood. One morning I decided I was going to make her pancakes. I’m actually a very good cook, and I fancy myself for having a flair in the kitchen. I’m a Food Network fan, and I loved Iron Chef at the time. (still do, but I liked the original WAY better.)
I prepared my super duper pancake batter (Wal-Mart boxed). I brought my new bride into the kitchen for the show. “Watch me, bride. For I am going to make you breakfast with a show!” We had an electric stove in our tiny place, and I’ve always hated electric. They don’t cook right.
I heated up the skillet, and I dropped the first ladle full of batter in. I got it nice and golden brown on the one side, and the time came to flip.
|This is me, circa 2003, right before it all went horribly, horribly wrong. Man I used to be in shape.|
At this time, the only thought running through my head was, “If I flip this pancake without a spatula, my wife will come over here, strip naked, and throw herself at me with the passion of a woman who had just watched a Desperate Housewives marathon.”
“Bride! Watch this!” I shouted, and with a quick flip of my wrist, I launched the pancake up into the air, where it sailed up in a beautiful arc…
We’re going to pause here at the pinnacle of the pancake pitch, and talk about what it takes to cook a pancake. HEAT. Your pan should be hot enough that drops of water dropped onto it dance across the pan like a Democrat on the abortion issue. My pan was that hot. Maybe hotter, because it was an electric stove.
We hit play. The pancake begins its descent, and I notice something. It’s moving a lot closer to me than I thought it would. No worries. I can pull the pan closer, and still catch it, which will impress my new bride so much so that she will not only make love to me, but she will do it right there in the kitchen.
My reflexes are great. They really are. For a fat guy, I can catch almost anything thrown at me. I have a knack for figuring out the exact point where something will fall, and I can catch it. One of my favorite things to do is catch ice with my glass before it hits the floor if it falls out of the freezer.
Anyway. I bring the pan into where the pancake is going to land. I know this, because the pancake landed in the pan. I immediately felt the hot desire of my wife pressed closely against my flesh, and thought, “Man, she’s quick. And I’m amazing.”
But it wasn’t my wife or her passion that had closed in on me. It was the frying pan. The pan then proceeded to melt through a three and a half inch oval of skin on my stomach, instantly. I cannot describe this pain. It was terrible. I truly thought my intestines were going to spill on the floor, and I would die.
My bride? She laughed at me. There was no love making on the kitchen floor. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I got any love for a week while that was healing. I couldn’t wear a shirt for a week. I had to CALL IN SICK to my job, and the reason was, I couldn’t wear a shirt.
My medical treatment for this wound? A giant shot of humility. I think that hurt the worst. Also, paper towels folded up with duct tape around the edges to hold it on.
Man, I miss that high class newly married first aid.