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.

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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.