The second I walked through the door my monsters darling children started squawking for food.
We want pfannkuchen! (pronounced FAWN-kook-en) Don’t freak, they are just German pancakes.
I make them once a week and they are essentially crepes. I can bang them out super fast (double pan method, ninja style) but I think scarcity is good character building so I don’t make them all the time.
I bounced out of the house first thing this morning lickety-split to walk the beast before it go too hot so I have no idea what Zeb fed the kids, if anything at all.
Pfannkuchen it is, my children. Feeling all beneficent.
I went to set my stuff down and Zeb informed me that he had ix-nayed the pfannkuchen idea and told them they would have sandwiches or nothing. So I returned to the kitchen and they were tucking their napkins into their collars.
“Sorry guys, Daddy-o told me that he said no to the pancakes. Just so you know, I wasn’t born yesterday and I don’t appreciate you end-running him. Me and Dad, we’re on the same team.”
Insert howls of discontent. Suck it.
I took my coffee to my desk to start writing as they were enjoying their lunch. Zeb came in and asked what I made them to eat. “Sandwiches,” I said. “Solidarity, yo.” and I threw out my fist for a bump and I don’t know if it was because he’s been sorting records and had gotten into the Milli Vanilli but he ran up and chest bumped my fist. And spilled my coffee. I was like, “What the fuck?!? You spilled my coffee! I get your back and this is how you treat me?”
I retreated to the kitchen for a refill. Why do I even try?
I’m still taking the weekend off, so I’ll be back atcha on Monday with shitloads of ugly crap.
Chest bumped your fist. Hilarious!!
What an idiot. My coffee went everywhere.
Yum
14×10!! That’s bigger than my first flat!