Ah, good old Pancake Day. It’s the only day of the year you can legitimately call people tossers and claim that it was meant entirely innocently. Speaking of Shrove Tuesday-related rudeness, I’m reminded of something that happened on this very day three years ago that I neglected to write about at the the time. A flash-in-the-pan flashback, if you will.
Dylan was two years old, Xander was almost one and, if you’d have told us that Kate and I would one day have a third child, I would have laughed hysterically and gone to hide in the cupboard under the stairs.
Having a sweet tooth and not being one to shirk traditions when eating is involved, I had lovingly prepared some pancake mix and was about to make some for Dylan to try. He wasn’t talking much at the time and we were worried about it, but needn’t have been as I was about to discover to my cost.
I switched on the gas hob and was about to pour some mix into the pan when I was distracted – probably by him dropping something from his seat at the dining room table. A few moments later, I returned to the kitchen to discover that I’d left a tea towel a little close to the oven. It wasn’t hard to spot – it was more like Bonfire Night than Pancake Day.
Since becoming a dad, I’ve developed an ability to not panic in such situations. I calmly picked it up, dropped it in the sink and turned the cold tap on. Job done. Realising that I was wasting gas, I quickly turned back to the oven to get on with the pancakes. Too quickly. I knocked the pancake mix over and a large pool of the stuff was forming on the floor. It was at this point that I shouted something in Anglo Saxon.
Fortunately, there was just enough mix left in the bowl for one pancake. Dylan was soon wolfing it down, pausing occasionally to joyfully yell “Oh borrocks!” Another proud parenting moment…