September 25, 2010
The Bishop's Breakfast
A few times a year, the leaders of our church make pancakes for the congregation. If eating breakfast is all that is required, I would be fine. Unfortunately, attendance at these events comes with the expectation that guests will do the s-word: socialize.
That's more than I'm capable of doing on any given Saturday morning.
My children, on the other hand, have a neurotic obsession with the Bishop's Breakfast. Their fantasy includes an all-you-can-eat Las Vegas-style buffet line. My husband told them to imagine instead a paper plate containing two soggy pancakes and a strip of bacon...if they're lucky.
Despite the reality check, nothing could dampen their enthusiasm for the party.
"I lost the handout that they gave us at church," I told them truthfully. "I can't remember when exactly the breakfast is."
My children have minds like steel traps and informed me that the breakfast was scheduled for this morning at 8am.
That seemed a little on the early side, but we went anyway. The parking lot was empty.
[insert 5 minutes of mass hysteria]
"It's probably at 9 or 10, but we can't come back because you have a soccer game," I told them.
Everyone calmed down when I agreed to make pancakes at home.
My almost two-year-old decided to help. Everything was going well until I turned my back to get an egg out of the refrigerator.
That's when he spit into the batter.
Yes. But also strangely fitting.