Several months ago, Mr. Omar gave his phone number to the local butcher in the hope of winning half a sheep. Now he’s complaining crassly about them sending him adverts for nippy sausages at two in the morning.
I don’t really know what to say to this. Of all the contests to enter, that wouldn’t have been my first choice. He can complain as he wishes about the incessant messages, he still woke up and made sausage for breakfast, so he should really try to be less easy.
I, on the other hand, opted for pancakes, for the first time in maybe six years.
Now, I’m not one for boasting usually. Boasting is such a pervasive, politically benign topic, Saint Paul’s (either super passive-aggressive or slightly intoxicated (that’s just my opinion)) spiel on boasting falls among the list of favorite sermon subjects for most priestly persons. And, having grown up mostly in church, it was a topic I heard quite a lot about. It’s good in a way; being “down to Earth” is something I consider to be mostly admirable (like grounded circuits), though a constant admonishment to be humble when a person’s already shy to begin with can turn into a sort of meek underselling of oneself, (or annoyingly false modesty in the opposite case), which is less good.
Still, this is not one of those classic undersells I’m so used to giving. This is a full-out, totally-owning-it, boasty-boast. And here it goes:
This morning, for the first time EVER, I managed to make an entire batch of pancakes without ruining a single one. No half-dones, overdones, overdone with half-done centers…none dropped on the floor…it was glorious.
There was a brief moment of panic when I dropped the melted butter right into the raw egg and feared I might end up with scrambled bits, but none were to be found. I can happily and totally boastfully report that after three decades of life, a B.A, a quarter of a B.Eng, and some fancy on-the-heat/off-the-heat frying pan maneuvers, I finally succeeded in making a full batch of pancakes.
No need to hold the applause.