Pop is on a business trip in Las Vegas, the land of my marriage to Mr. Smith.
He drove, which, in my opinion, is the only way to go to Vegas.
Flying is for the birds.
You just have to drive over that rise and see the city.
If you can arrange to arrive at night, that is the best way to see it.
Mr. Smith and Grammy are both suffering at the hands of our latest viral disease.
I am the only healthy adult in the house.
So I decided to make Pumpkin Cinnamon Streusel Pancakes for dinner.
I mix up the pancake batter and the streusel. I follow the recipe TO THE LETTER, which is something I almost NEVER do.
I fire up the stove and the cast iron skillet.
I put 1/3 cup of the batter in the pan and sprinkle streusel on the top.
I flip the pancake so the streusel is now on the bottom and then add more streusel on the top side of the pancake.
The pancake is stuck (due to the carmelized streusel) to the pan, making the actual removal of said pancake from the pan nearly impossible.
Mr. Smith is circling the kitchen, very hungry and very sick. He just wants to eat and go to bed.
The kids are playing some very LOUD very wild game that demands that they run through the kitchen at top speed and scream AT THE TOP OF THEIR LUNGS for long periods of time.
I am slowly getting into a homicidal rage due to the pressure to produce dinner, keep the kids from killing each other and keep the pancakes from catching on fire, since they are pretty much smoldering.
I get about 4 pancakes done and Mr. Smith fixes a plate.
He cuts into one of the pancakes and actual BATTER spills out!!!
They are done on the outside, but RAW BATTER inside.
The kids have reached a fever pitch. I am livid.
In an attempt to remove H from the situation and prevent injury (get ready for a heaping dose of irony), I pick him up to carry him into the living room. He is trying to get away from me, which means that I drop him...on his face.
I start writing my acceptance speech for Mother of the Effin' Year...in my head.
H runs upstairs sobbing and in pain because, "Today is the worst day EVER!"
I follow him in attempt to see how bad his injuries are (not bad) and calm him down AND apologize profusely for being such a gigantic ass.
Thankfully, he forgives me.
He goes back downstairs and I sit on his bed and cry.
I come back downstairs, feeling like an utter failure.
I decide that my punishment is to eat the god-forsaken pancakes anyway.
Mr. Smith, very wisely, opts out and has cereal instead.
Grammy and I eat the semi-cooked god-forsaken pancakes anyway.
Time passes, my stomach starts churning and hurting.
While I am giving the kids their baths and getting them to bed, the pain is getting worse and worse.
By the time C is in bed, I can no longer stand up straight.
I take TUMS (Orange Creme, taste exactly like St. Josephs' Baby Aspirin...total
flashback to my childhood). Actually, I consider taking all the TUMS, but leave some for Grammy, who is also experiencing some discomfort from Death Cakes.
I go to bed curled in the fetal position, praying for relief.
Needless to say, I threw away the recipe. The memory is just too painful.