I think it’s fair to say that pancakes occupy my soft spot, somewhere in the food group section with ice cream and cereal. But they obviously don’t offer the same nutritional value as those two delicious foodstuffs, instead targeting the ‘taste zones’ with concentrated ‘lemon & sugar’ combinations. I can say for a certainty that my ‘taste zones’ are positively orgasmic after a one-to-one with a stack of pancakes, usually leaving my non-food-digesting body parts weak with complete vicarious satisfaction.
Today is, of course, pancake Tuesday, which falls one day prior to Ash Wednesday, a very solemn day. To me, this holiday stands for peace and justice to all free men. It is a day in which humanity celebrities the little accomplishments that would otherwise be overshadowed by disasters and negative auras. Relevant examples include Mother Natures dirty little tricks and ‘artificial accidents’ such as the war in Iraq and the spate of riots around the globe in such diverse nations as Australia, France and Dublin. But this is Pancake Tuesday and I am Robert Meehan and a stack of golden pastry treats represents what I want to focus on, which is outlined as follows in three easy steps:
The Safety of An Envelope:
The act of blanketing one substance or person with another substance or person. In sexual terms, this would be referred to as spooning. In pancake terms - which should become universal analogies – this is the act of folding the body of the crepe over itself to hold in the delicious, sweet lemon juice. It should be noted that the pancake is not even a cake, but was misdiagnosed as one by the French in 1492. Ironically, this was the same year Columbus discover America, then known as ‘Djiajo’, the Native American term for pancake.
Music In Mouth:
After the steaming juice tube has entered my mouth hole, what follows can only be described as pure Disney. The more intrusive qualities of pancakes seep down my spine, usually persuaded to shiver, and relax in the back of my knees, which begin to weaken and wobble. Meanwhile, in the brain cave, my grey matter breaks out a six of Bud and puts its feet up, perfectly content in a well-deserved break usually lasting between six and ten seconds. My muscles relax and soften and the external environment mutes and dims as the express train to Utopia slowly breaks away from the station. All aboard.
When I was young, being called a liar was a familiar allegation both uttered and received by me in school, on Ash Wednesday, after I got the gunk on my forehead but before the class settled in for lessons. The conversations that took place were innocent competitions, displaying the male need to be macho in the years before we realised that the length of our penis was more important than what we could fit into our stomachs. They usually started thusly:
“How many you haff?”
“How many pancakes didja eat?”
“I ate seven.”
“No you didn’t, liar. No body can eat seven pancakes. NO BODY.”
“How many did choo haff then?”
“I had eleven.”
“Fookin’ LIAR. No body can eat eleven. NO BODY.”
At this point the teacher, upon hearing the fuck word, would scold everyone and begin basic geography with gradients and the like.
I have just eaten my first pancake for today. Escaped juice runs the front of my jumper, sticky and spotty, but totally suckable. I thank my mother who did the honours and lackadaisically stroll to the bathroom for immediate release. I could never hold my pancakes like I could my liquor; bloody things go straight through me. But the even the results of a pancake feast have always been rewarding and sometimes even tempting. But I resist that temptation and return to the kitchen for more hot disks of heavenly mouth stuffers. I eat and live to love and leave.