Saturday Morning Pancakes (cont.)

I have found that Google's Reader doesn't like it when I go back and edit prior posts, so I will simply start a new entry. Va bene?

Every Saturday since the birth of the beloved hot tub of my gene pool, I have gotten up early (around noon) and made pancakes for Megan and I. It may seem unfair that Matilda cannot participate, but don't worry, I shake up a little Bisquick in one of her bottles. Keep the ratio the same as that of baby formula, add just a drop or two of syrup, a tablespoon of butter (babies need their fat), and voila! Liquid babycakes are a meal fit for baby royalty*.

*I hereby declare that my mention of liquid babycakes is farcical. If a reader is dumb enough to actually try this and harm comes of it, I take no responsibility, legal or otherwise. Your reading of this statement constitutes your acceptance thereof.

Weeks 1-2 - Powdered pancake mix. I have since forsworn this kind of pancakery. It is expensive, boring, and the end product delighteth not my tongue like unto other made-from-scratch-thereof recipes. If you are allergic to effort and must buy a mix, I recommend the Chappawhodapoopie Falls. It's the best mix I have ever had. Another great variation is to take the pancake mix, add a couple thinly sliced bananas and some cinnamon, then cook as normal.

Week 3 - German Pancakes. This delightful little number hails from the mountain regions of Deutchland. Baron Von Paken Kakken IV, Jr., had had just about enough of sauerkraut and blood sausage for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. One morning, after the krauty aroma waftily wafted into his hairy Slavic nostrils, something snapped. Normally a mild-mannered Baron, he flipped. He ran around the family farm shaking and squeezing the livestock in his intense gastronomic frustrations. After a short while (Paken Kakken was, short, flat, and a bit of a chub chub) he sat to rest and began to observe the carnage left in his wake. Shaking the chicken had produced a smallish white orb. Squeezing the cow left behind a pool of creamy liquid. Punching Mr. Cinnamon in the mouth left behind a dusting of sweet brown dust. And there were lots of pretty flowers (Baron got distracted easily by beauty). He mixed them all together, threw the batter in the Dutch Oven he had recently bought in neighboring Dutchyland, and about 30 minutes later the thing looked like it was trying to escape. Growing up with wolves had left him with some wild instincts (and a little social awkwardness), and so in his state of fight-or-flight he decided to bite the thing into submission. Luckily, the concoction wasn't alive (he wasn't nearly the genius his cousin Frankenstein was). But it was frightfully delicious! German Paken Kakkens (later shortened to pancakes at an Ellis Island eatery) had made their debut.

Week 4 - French Toast & Nun Puffs (another story for another day)

Week 5 - Buttermilk Pancakes from scratch.

Weeks 6-7 - Murphy's Stopped Water Flapjacks. Why the name? Well, I call them "Stopped Water Flapjacks" because they're damned good. Seriously. I don't have time to include the recipe now, but I will later. Normally I would not share such a valuable secret, but I figure that since I probably offended many of you with their name, I can placate your fractured feelings with through your tummy. That's why they have been around for two weeks, and are making a strong case for an unprecedented third. And just so you can prepare your conscience, anyone who wants to use the recipe when I post it will have to swear a syrup oath to preserve the name "Murphy's Stopped Water Pancakes".

Two weeks ago was especially enjoyable because I got to spend the entire morning alone with Matilda. I'm not kidding myself, I know that majority of bloggers, ergo my readers, are women, so women take note! Men need alone-time with the baby. You got nine months with them. They have the father snip the umbilical cord for a reason. It be daddy time. So on said Saturday the 20th of September, I stole zee baybee! I stoled it frahm a stoo-pid taikhini (sp?)! After loading the stroller with all the necessary supplies, Tilly and I went for a walk to Smith's whilst Megan slumbered. Luckily, she was as content as could be as we strolled around and I got all the necessary ingredients.

I admit, I was nervous venturing out into public with an infant and no milk available from me to calm her should I need to. (FYI, my original version of the preceding sentence was much more funny, but since I already offended you once, I decided against using the boob word). But it was great! Really a meaningful bonding experience. "It is as we nakedly venture into our most vulnerable situations that we find ourselves clothed with the experiences upon which a life is built." - Sean Patrick Murphy, 2008.

Unfortunately, I bought too much stuff. I knew I did not have a car, but that sure did not stop me from getting enough crap to break a camel's back, even without straw. Being a bearded man means I'm tough, though, so I hefted it home. An hour later, after the feeling and color returned to my appendages, I got out the cookbook and experimented a bit.

Murphy's Stopped Water Flapjacks were born.

And now a few a bit on Matilda. She is stopped water AMAZING! Best baby ever. Hasn't gotten sick. Sleeps for 6-7 hours a night in her crib. Doesn't spit up. Isn't fussy. Makes great eye contact and follows objects well with her eyes. Can reach out to grab faces and objects that are close enough. Coos constantly. And much to the extreme happiness of Megan and I, she has begun smiling at us. Not that weird baby twitching that looks like a smile. This morning she had been awake for 15 minutes or more when I got in her line of vision and our eyes met. We held each other's gaze for 10-15 seconds, then she smiled a big, genuine smile. She loves her daddy. My heart melted. I love you too, Matilda. I also love my wife, Megan, without whom none of this wonderful life would have happened.

Smiley in polka dots...

...and in her flowery blue dress
I have this picture as the background on my laptop.

Enough with the pictures! *PUNCH*

Check out the definition in those arms. She may be little, but she could take you. Seriously. But you can't take her. She's mine. And that would be kidnapping.