My 4 year old daughter sits on the counter while I make pancakes! I can’t ever remember sitting on the counter while my mom made any meals/baked goods. All of my kids have at one time or another sat on the counter and mixed the batter for me! I love it when they help.
Sundays at Casa del Jay-C aren’t Pancake Days, nosiree. Sundays are Fishin’ Days. I’m a very feminine girly-girl, but damn I like me some fishin’. Sunday? Check. Nice weather? Check. Nothing to do? Check again. It looks like a perfect day for fishing. In a brief fit of stupidity, I call my sister and invited her and her son to go with me. Great, she says. Come on down, I know of a Great Pond to fish. Lots of big catfish, not many people. Sounds good. I arrive, and she decides to stop by one of the pizza shops she owns in town to snag some dinner. I’m going there to fish, not to eat, but hey - whatever works, you know? She grabs some candy, sodas, chips, and some chicken wings at her shop, and we’re off. We are all set for some good old redneck fishin’. All we need is some Milwaukee’s Best and Copenhagen. Her Great Pond, as it turns out, is a stocked pond that you have to PAY to fish. My inner Orlando Wilson is crying out that this sucks, but I placate him with the promise that a pay to fish pond must surely be stocked with some big ol’ fish. I dutifully pay my $7 and trudge toward the fishin’ hole.
To provide a little backstory, my sister fishes like a girl. As another human of the female persuasion, I feel that I can say this with no fear of recrimination. She won’t bait her own hook (worms are “slimy”), and Og forbid she actually catch a fish. At the first sign of a nibble (which is when her bobber twitches even slightly), she will shriek and yank her pole while insisting, “That’s how you set the hook.” If “setting the hook” is defined as yanking your line so damn hard that your soggy worm-laden hook comes flying out of the water and snags in your sister’s hair, then she’s one hell of a hook-setter. Once in a while, I’ve seen her actually “set the hook” and catch a fish this way, yanking so hard that some hapless bluegill comes whipping out of the water toward us at Mach 3. On the occasions that this happens, she will invariably squeal, drop her pole and begin her Fish Dance - prancing in place while howling, “Get it Jenni, get it.” (I hate that she calls me Jenni, but that’s nearly its own Pit thread, so I’ll leave it for another time.) That is my cue to pick up her pole, remove the fish from her line and release it back to the water.
Anyway, my sister was in fine form yesterday. I forgot to mention that her pole whipping “set the hook” rountine usually causes the worm to come off her hook, so I spend a large portion of my time re-worming her hook. Fishing with my sister and her son involves very little real fishing on my part. What usually happens is that I bait their hooks about four times before I can even get down to deciding what lure to use. Yesterday was no exception.
I realize that I’m not going to get any real fishing done, so I decide to experiment. What types of non-bait foods can be used to catch a fish? Experiment #1 - gummy worms. I mean, it looks like a worm, right? What’s not to like? No dice. Not even an experimental nibble. I reel in my line and move on to Experiment #2 - Riesen. I hope chocolate isn’t harmful to fish. They don’t fall for that either. Bubble gum? Experiment #3 also fails. My gaze falls upon the box of chicken wings. Hmmm. They’re meat. Fish eat worms. Worms are sort of like meat. Let’s give it a go. I peel off a small bit of wing meat and bait my hook. Bingo! I don’t know if it’s the chicken or my sister’s secret wing sauce, but the fish are going crazy. I reel in two in rapid succession.
Realizing I’m on to something, I grab a Mustad double live bait hook (looks like a safety pin with hooks on the end) and slide on a whole chicken wing. Load on some split shot for weight, and I’m set. I’m gunning for the big fish now. I cast my line far out into the pond, musing that chickens aren’t flightless birds after all. As it plops into the water, I settle in to continue my experiment. Five minutes go by. Nothing. I become distracted by baiting my sister’s hook for the millionth time. As I’m finishing up, my sister begins her Fish Dance again. Perplexed, I look up to see my pole inching its way toward the water. I lunge at the pole, catching it just in time. Something has taken the chicken wing.
The fight begins. I’m trying my best to reel, but I’m losing ground. My pole is bent nearly in half, and I’m getting pulled toward the water. I’m also drawing a crowd. Nothing like toothless, redneck old men offering their opinions in between spitting tobacco on the ground. “Cut the line,” one offers. “Nah, give 'er to me, I’ll reel 'er in,” chimes his beer toting pal. My inner Oralndo Wilson is dancing a jig with my inner Walt Reynolds. Why I’ve got two pro fisherman cavorting about inside my mind, I have never questioned. They’re just there, and I pacify them with fishin’ every now and again. But I digress. At this point, everyone within earshot has stopped fishing, and is heading my way. My sister is performing the most frenzied Fish Dance I’ve ever seen, and shrieking like a harpy.
The fish breaks the surface of the water. My legs turn to jelly. I’m not sure, but I think I pee myself a little bit too. Oh dear sweet Jesus, this son of a bitch has a head as big as mine. I’ve hooked the Loch Ness Monster. Okay, it’s just a catfish, but I’m scared now. I continue reeling, the old men on the bank whooping with excitement. Ed (that’s what I named the catfish - I name things, so sue me) puts up an admirable fight, but in the end resigns himself to the inevitable. My muscles straining, I haul Ed toward the bank, and one of the onlookers leans in with a net and we drag Ed ashore. The pond’s proprieter arrives with a scale and a Polaroid camera. I’ve caught the pond record. Ed weighs 30 pounds, and is 32 inches long. They take my photo, Ed is released back to the water, and the rednecks grumble about a girl catching the record. When they ask me what I used as bait, I just smile and tell them it’s a family secret.
So if you ever go to Long’s Pay to Fish pond in Carlwick, Ohio, look at the wall of photos. Somewhere on there is a picture of a tall, blond girly-girl, her nicely manicured hands covered in mud, her expensively highlighted hair in disarray, holding the biggest damn catfish you ever did see. That’d be me.
jay-c did you get to keep and eat the other catfish? Catch and release catfish? Why that’d be unheard of round here. Ol’ Ed woulda been skinned, gutted, fileted, fried and eaten with sides of hush puppies, french fries, coleslaw and cheese grits. 
scout you mean he redecorated your house? That shoulda been a sign right there. 
- You can’t play tic-tac-toe on an omlette.
- Should your ice cube tray suddenly crack, you can always make them in a waffle.
- The upper left hand corner of a waffle will hold your gum until you’re through with breakfast.
Sadly, this was a pay-to-fish establishment. You paid $7 to fish, and an additional fee to keep what you caught. I didn’t want to know how much it would have cost me to keep Ed. Nor was I too keen on the prospect of an hour long drive home with a stinky 30 pound dead fish in my trunk. Ew. Next time, I’m going down to the river like a good ol’ redneck fisherwoman, and catching my catfish for free.
Oooo, pancakes. Anyone else watch Dave the Barbarian? Anyone?
<crickets chirping>
OK, fine it’s just me. Then I’ll share with you the latest song from The Barbarian 5 Plus Donkey:
Pancakes, pancakes, eat 'em with a fork!
Pancakes, pancakes, don’t be a dork!
sigh And I’d just managed to successfully get that stupid song out of my head, too. Thanks a LOT.
So I’ve got this fiancé, right? And every once and a while, I am reminded of how incredibly odd she is. This is one of those times. She will only eat pancakes (Sorry Rue, I’m a Bisquick guy) with Peanut Butter. That’s right, she Slaps a Slab of Skippy on the Slapjack. She insists that her mom eats 'em that way too, but I don’t believe it. Maybe it’s a Northern Vermont/Canada thing.
On the plus side, her father makes his own maple syrup. He taps the trees, boils it down, bottles it up, and (if we’re lucky) sends it to us. He usually makes around 5 to 10 gallons a year.
Fun Fact: It takes about 40 gallons of sap to make 1 gallon of syrup.
jay-c, you are a fine figger of Merikun femininininin…uh…womanhood! 'Cept for the Copenhagen, that stuff’s just nasty. (Hey, I’m an Orygunian, we aren’t so much red-necked as we are web-footed.)
No pancakes for me for a while. The little woman, (my little woman, not Rue’s,) has decided we’re gonna be inducted. No, not into The American Tasting Institute, but into Atkin’s. BTW, The American Culinary Institute (nee: The American Tasting Institute), these days isn’t into tasting so much as cooking any more, which kinda precedes the tasting, so it’s all jake. But I digress. Anyway, we’re gonna do Atkins, The diet, not the doctor, 'cause he’s mostly dead now. Any and all encouragement will be greatly appreciated. The thing is, when my wife decides to do something, she has to do it right now! (Except leave a party, which can easily take an hour or more.)
So anyway, we’ve got all these potatoes and bagels and bread and other carby type foods lying about to taunt me. 
Now I’m depressed again. And I hafta go to work now.
- Bumbahungry.
You don’t say much (looks at post count and join date) but… wow. Damned fine story!
Hey lighting, the Little Woman (mine, not Bumba’s) eats peanut butter on her pancakes. She also puts ketchup on her eggs.
Wimmins are perplexing sometimes.
Unfortunately, I can say that I have that beat. I’m 26, so you can imagine my surprise when I got my last haircut and looked in the mirror. My head is about half gray :eek: ! I don’t know how it happened, but there it is.
In the spirit of the OP, I will be making mention of various baked breakfast-y things in my description of the past weekend.
Saturday, breakfast did not include any form of baked good - it was my healthy-for-you cereal, mixed with 1/2 ounce of walnuts. That is because I had no time for fresh-baked goodness - I had to drive to my hula lessons. I am a fairly new hula dancer, and I’m basically the beginner class. Not in the class - I am the class. So, for an hour and a half it was just me and the instructor, which can be good in that all the focus is on me. The bad is all the focus is on me. So, after the first hour and a half the advanced class showed up, and we worked for another hour and a half. That’s right - I spent 3 hours Saturday doing hula. Which sounds like hard work, but it wasn’t like it was constant movement - a lot of stopping to talk in between. Three hours of hula could really throw your hips out of joint - not to mention I was working with puili (see what they look like here ), which included whacking myself in the upper arms - deliberately! But, in the end, there was a lot of pride - I honestly had the routine down the best of everyone there, and my instructor gave me a big hug - she was so proud. They also invited me to go to a seminar in Indiana in September - don’t know if I can make that one, vacation time and all. But - they also asked if I wanted to perform in a luau in Maryland at the end of September. I said yes - but I can always back out.
So - three hours of hip swaying and stick beating later, I drove home. Since I was going out that night, I didn’t do much for the rest of the day - had a sandwich from Subway, and took a nap. Then - date! It went well in some ways - we had dinner at an Irish pub, and went to see the Bourne Supremacy. I was starved at dinner - I actually ate my entire meal, which I don’t usually do. Is it a bad sign when a guy uses the word “scarfed” to mention how you were eating? On second thought, I’m not sure if it was scarfed or snarfed - my memory is fuzzy. Either way, it doesn’t contribute to the view of me as a delicate, birdlike creature. Aw, screw it. I’m sure the scratching and spitting doesn’t help either. Anyway, dinner was alright (nothing too fancy or extraordinarily good/bad - food). Movie was same - alright, and I would see the inevitable sequel, but nothing particularly stuck in my mind.
Sunday was standard - church & lunch, and laziness - which is what Sundays should be about. Then there was hair cutting - but nothing drastic, since I’m going to my brother’s wedding this Saturday. Also got some pretty toes - and bought some new shoes to show 'em off.
And then - there were muffins! Baked a batch of sour cream peach muffins. Sadly, they were not as superlative as I would want - but I have home-baked (no box mix for me! superior) muffins in the freezer, so all is good. I also have blueberry muffins left, so I won’t be stuck in a muffin rut.
And for my vote of breakfast goods - depends on my mood. Been leaning towards pancakes recently, but muffins are almost always in my freezer as mentioned. I like Kellogg’s Nutrigrain waffles - and I am a freak too, as I put peanut butter on them. And in the near future, I will be having my Uncle Jack’s french toast - best french toast, ever!
Susan
There’s a place in Ocean City, MD, called the Bayside Skillet. It’s a crepe and pancake place around 70th Street on the Bay side (it was painted pink with a brown deck - at least it used to be there, I haven’t been to OC in years) that served crepes and pancakes a zillion different ways and one of my favorites was the PB&J crepes. They’d spread PB on the crepes, roll them up and serve them with your choice of jelly or jam to spread on the top. Very tasty.
So Susan, if this dude isn’t turned off by how fast you stuff your face ( ) are you gonna see him again?
It seemed to be proper that I should use the MMP to announce that I’m on line in my new house! YAY!
The cable guy just left and I’m up and running. The movers are bringing in all our other crap. Life is good, even if it is thunderstorming.
I’ll be back later, but I just had to make my first on-line activity here.
Air kisses all around! :D:D:D
This thread leads me to wonder one thing:
WHY THE HELL AM I READING THIS THREAD?!
I have an hour left of work, no breakfast in me, and an insane wafflelust.
Feel my lust for waffles. I require waffles!
Yes, I realize that I had a large helping of pancakes just yesterday, but do you honestly believe that matters to me? Because if you do, you have got another thing coming to you.
Ohhh, the wafflelust I am lusting…
Thank you! I generally don’t post unless I feel that I can contribute something interesting or of value. There are a lot of talented writers on the boards, and I don’t really think I stack up. This is only the second time I’ve posted in the MMP - I was kinda hoping Rue himself would acknowledge this one.
- Looks shyly down at ground, kicks at dirt expectantly… *
You state Aunt Jemima is better than Bisquick, then admit to your plebian vanilla tastes? For shame, Rue.
When LilMiss was, well, Lil, she loved Mickey Mouse chocolate chip pancakes. You know, the three blobs of batter formed to make da mouse? It’s still her comfort food. However, pancakes caused her first trauma. She says she still remembers me telling her the griddle was hot and her (ever so logically) deciding to check out the truthfulness of that statement. If I make pancakes she stands off to the side of the stove.
If we’re adding on what we did this weekend, Saturday I managed to score a coup. Packed LilMiss in the car, simply said “Road Trip!”. Managed to make it to our destination without her figuring out where we were going. She tried, though. “Shopping? Cabin? Shopping? Hotel? C’mon Ma, where we going? Where we going?”
We went to a small county fair. It was great. We went on the Scrambler (sans eggs). Had a water balloon fight. She went on the Tilt-A-Whirl (my tummy can’t hack it) with a kid who she thought was cute. His dad wasn’t bad either. She cleaned me out in the Midway, bringing home 6 MORE stuffed animals.
Then we hit the barns. Now, I was raised in North Minneapolis. Once every few years we would visit my dad’s family on the farm in Wisconsin, but otherwise country life is alien to me. Ditto LilMiss. Without the Wisconsin trips. We held baby chicks and ducklings, pet cows/steers/bulls, pigs, sheep. She had a rooster chase her. A girl her age let LilMiss help brush down a horse. She saw a hen lay an egg. A goat bit her on the tushie. When I laughed she tried siccing the goat on me. Guess I’m not tasty, as goat ran away.
The highlight- as at ANY fair- MINIDONUTS.
Well, you had me laughing out loud, jay-c. Don’t be shy…post away! It’s the MMP afterall. 
Susan, pictures!! We want hula pictures!
Bumba, I thought you could eat enough so you didn’t go hungry on Atkins?
FCM, woohoo! You’re online at home!!! Chairs? Tables? Beds? Who needs em! 
MissTake, will you adopt me???
Because I make Mickey Mouse pancakes or because a goat wouldn’t bite me?