The Flap Over the Flapjacks

The hubby “cooks,” occasionally. His two gourmet specialties of the house are (drum roll here please): pancakes and baked ziti. Yesterday, he set about, with great ceremony and many, many dirty pans, utensils, and syrup-encrusted dishes, to whip up his pancakes, only to inform me that it was MY fault that only one of our kids could actually eat some. Why? Because we didn’t have enough Bisquick left in the two-ton box from Costco. (Note: He is the only one in our household who ever uses said Bisquick.)

“Why didn't you put it on the list?” I ask.
“What list?” he replies without skipping a beat.

The list that he has so conveniently managed to block from his memory is the running grocery list that has been hanging on a bulletin board in our kitchen for close to two decades. A list, by the way, on which he has previously scrawled “Double Stuff Oreos” 87 times. So the way I see it is: one of my kids had to make due with stale Lucky Charms because a) the pancake pro forgot to write Bisquick on the grocery list and b) I didn’t have the necessary x-ray vision to see that there was only an inch of pancake mix left in the box.

He’s planning a big baked ziti for tonight’s gourmet feast. I can’t wait to see how he stretches the five lone pieces of pasta rattling around in the Ronzoni box into dinner for four.

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