Yesterday was not special. I worked. I blogged. I drank too much coffee. I ate too many shortbread cookies. I regretted not blogging more. I regretted drinking too much coffee. I hated myself for not buying more shortbread cookies.
As the clock neared 5pm, I gave up hope that the night be would any different than my day. Joe was working late and I had no clue what to make for dinner. I contemplated submitting to take-out food but something about it didn’t interest me enough to dig through the drawer of menus.
And then, I remembered reading recently about Dutch Baby Pancakes and it reminded me how much I missed The Original Pancake House in San Jose where I used to order them. I pondered the thought of pancakes. How easy are they? They must be difficult since I don’t know of anyone who’s made them. Do I even have flour? I think I used up all the eggs. Wait. I don’t even know what ingredients it uses.
And, as if transported back in time, I remembered a childhood conversation with my father when he asked me the question. I cringe to even reflect on the painfully awkward, palm-sweating, eager-to-flee discussion with my father when he sat me down and asked … do you know how babies are made?
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