By Staff
Leada DeVaney, Editor
My 4-year-old nephew Collier was sitting at my kitchen table on Sunday morning, fork in one hand, spoon in the other.
He and his brother, Isaac, decided to spend the night with Aunt Le-Le, mainly because my mother was staying at my house and they knew they would be spoiled silly.
Earlier that morning, Collier had informed me he wanted chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast.
"My dad makes those," he said.
I assured him I, too, could make chocolate chip pancakes. Even better, I told him, is that I would let him have chocolate milk with his chocolate-chip pancakes because I knew he would like it and because I could send him home before his sugar overdose prompted him to scale the walls.
I've made lots of pancakes in my life, everything from plain and the traditional blueberry to ones decorated with mini M&Ms. So, as Collier sat at the table wearing his Superman pajamas and a big grin, I started to cook.
In about 15 minutes, the pancakes were done. I had poured the chocolate milk, put a few pieces of sausage on the table (they don't make chocolate sausage, I told Collier) and even found the syrup for the pancakes.
My older nephew, Isaac, dug right in. Collier looked at me funny.
"These don't look like my dad's pancakes," he said. "These have holes in them."
Holes? Where are there holes?
"There aren't any holes in the pancakes," I replied. "They are good. Eat."
He picked up a pancake and pointed to the edge.
"See?" he said. "There are holes. They are bumpy. My dad's pancakes are round."
He had me there. My pancakes weren't round. They really weren't any shape at all, unless you consider blob a shape.
I went back to the plate where the pancakes were piled up. Digging through the stack, I found one small pancake that I hoped would pass as round.
"Here's a round one," I said. "No holes."
I moved the obviously offensive pancakes off Collier's plate and put the round one down.
"I don't have any dipping sauce," Collier said.
"Dipping sauce? You're not eating chicken nuggets," I said. "What's dipping sauce?"
He looked around for the bottle of syrup. Following Collier's instructions, I poured some on the plate but not on the pancakes. He ate a few bites and then looked at me.
"I like my dad's pancakes better," he said.
"Drink your chocolate milk," I said. "I bet I can find a cookie somewhere around here."
For at least a moment, Superman was satisfied.