Pancake Day another deflated sigh from me. I can cook full on Christmas dinner to edible standard but do you think I can cook a fucking pancake? I am sure this is another way my kids have found to torcher me with, as their only reason why they insist I make them and refuse the ready made ones slung in the frying pan. Apparently they just not the same as mine. Of course not because I can take out a grown adult by lobbing one of mine at them. Yes my children do know better, why else would they understand that Aunty Betsy makes our puddings.
So my lovely children I will do your pancakes later and after about four tries I will stomp like a hormonal teenager thats ends up throwing the bowl of mix in the sink a bit to forceful that is showers the fucking tiles, blind and window.
I’d probably suck it up with a bit more enthusiasm if my kids did not then turn around later and say what’s for dinner. Isn’t the whole point of pancake day so that you can stuff yourself to the point of wanting to be sick that you can’t possible want dinner. (Spare the religious stuff attached to pancake day, I mean you do see any of that in the shops, when flogging lemon, nutella and frypan).
Lastly I super excited for all the facebook photos, the ones that show little Picasso artistic talents, who has made a whole family portrait with pancakes. Whilst one of mine is bound to say ‘eww who’s hair is this in my pancake’