Pancake Throat

Written in Spring 2001 when all Pancake Breakfast meant to me was Dachau. --Neva

I really hate pancakes.

What did pancakes ever do to me? Is there a tale of pancake sodomy occurring at some point in my delicate childhood?

Close. I went to summer camp for ten summers. I participated in the ritual
cleansing of over seventy-two pancake encrusted plates, seventy-two forks slippery from the cheap margarine that the camp bought, and seventy-two knives that were sticky from maple goo.

I really hate maple goo. Probably even more than pancakes. This will eliminate the Canadian portion from my dating pool, but when you combine that smell with half-heartedly melted margarine, Tang, pre-pubescent hormones, and the stagnant July air that has no hint of humidity but an overabundance of sage and dirt…it becomes a Three’s Company in my body starring nausea, eye twitching, dry mouth and Mr. Furly. Going out to breakfast with my mother when she ordered pancakes left me green faced, me constantly winking, going through pitchers of water and wearing ridiculous kerchiefs around my neck.

I hate pancakes and maple goo the way most men hate Richard Gere.

The way Captain does it to Tennielle more than one time.

The way Siegfried named his dick The Royrider.

All encompassing, nastily, and just plain wrong.

Then came the morning where my friend, the Greek, offered to make me pancakes. It had been nine years since I had ingested the popular breakfast food. I swore it off, vowing never to eat another one for as long as I lived. So, how did the Greek convince me to eat my sworn enemy ?

Well…there was an attractive nearly naked man offering to cook me food, which has been a longtime fantasy of mine. He could have offered to amputate my nipples and fashion them into petite KiKi berets and I would have said okay. In the early morning, I’m up for anything, especially when there’s attractive nearly naked men involved.

The Greek made me a perfect short stack. He lectured me on the finer points of buttering and flipping as I had to keep reminding myself that I’ll be okay with the pancakes. As long as the goo was nowhere in the picture.

The Greek placed the short stack on a plate in front of me. He decided that with my motor skills at that point in the morning that I wouldn’t be able to butter them properly, so he took my knife and put a nice pat of butter under each and every cake. At this point, I was ready to eat.

Enter the GOO.

"And now, it's time for the maple syrup."

My dream of waking up to an attractive nearly naked man wanting to cook for me had turned into a nightmare of gigantic proportions. I tried to convince myself that the Greek was smart enough to notice that every time we went out for breakfast, I hardly ever once ordered breakfast food and when I did, no maple syrup got within ten feet of my food. However, these were pancakes - his pancakes. He created them and therefore, he was their God. And what was I but ungrateful if I did not want there to be maple goo on them? Who am I to tell God what his pancakes should or should not have on them?

I sat quietly as the Greek God went on.

"You have to drizzle it all over, making sure you get every inch."

I held my breath as the smell began to seep into the air.

"So when you cut into them -- like so --"

I turned my head away to avoid the senseless tragedy happening to my breakfast.

"--every layer, every bite you take will have it's own thick coating of maple syrup."

Do you know the real reason that Aunt Jemima and Mrs. Butterworth are smiling on the package? They know all maple syrup is sticky, slightly less better smelling, swill of shit.

"Enjoy."

I really hate maple syrup. But I really adore nearly naked men cooking for me.

A dilemma. A conundrum. Another thing that means either dilemma or conundrum.

I decided to think about it while eating the maple covered communion. I was surprised to find that I didn’t choke. If anything, I was Linda Lovelace starring in the poorly conceived fetish film, Pancake Throat.

I don’t hate pancakes anymore. I do hate maple goo to this day. This doesn’t stop me from eating the pancakes with the maple goo. It has since transformed from a morning mass to a breakfast rum & Coke. I like Coke. The rum is a bit hard to swallow at first, but the star of Pancake Throat can handle it like a pro.