• some stubborn insistence on using up that pint of goat milk that’s loitering in the fridge
  • lotsa butter


Taste goat milk you bought because your daughter really really wanted to try it; determine if it’s still “good”. Is it? It tastes a little funky, but it always tasted a little funky, because it’s from a micky-ficky goat.

Add the milk to some Bisquik, because it’s a semi-homemade kind of night.

Add in two healthy tablespoons of plain Greek yogurt, because yogurt makes your pancakes f’ing amazing.

Get egg white on your new fabulous secondhand Banana Republic jeans, because you apparently no longer know how to crack eggs.


Smile at your pan of pricey, local, nitrite/ate-free bacon, because that’s the kind of thing you do, now: your bacon quantity has dropped, but the quality has soared.

Pour pancakes into busted griddle.

Scramble in futility to find a spatula; curse the dishwasher gods when you find them dirty, nestled safely in the top rack.

Attempt to not squeeze daughter to pieces when she enters the kitchen and squeals, “Yay, pan-a-cakes!”

Marvel at the fact that no matter how much stuff you burn on this damn stove, you’ve yet to set off the sprinklers. Smart sprinklers, or malfunctioning sprinklers?

Pour rendered bacon fat into a glass container and save in the fridge for later, because it’s 1) expensive 2) a salve for all things.

Set food on table, making sure not to mention there’s goat milk in the pancakes, because your eldest child will swear they taste like “crackers and eggs”, like that’s a bad thing.

Top with amber agave nectar, and realize this is the most exotic plate of pancakes and bacon you’ve ever served.

Save some pancakes for a jamcakes breakfast, because you have blackberry jam, and you’re trying to fight the urge to eat it straight out the jar with a spoon.

Open patio door to let smoke out of home.


*Originally posted on Revelations in Absurdity.

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