Momma had come home early from work today to cook because Poppa was going to bring his boss home for dinner, to "cheer him up." The boss' name is Jim, and his cat got run-over and was squished all over the road. The cat's name was Jim, too. Jim said that Jim was his best friend--if that makes any sense to anybody.
My name is Larissa, and I am six-years-old. Don't let that bother you. It doesn't bother me one bit even though some people keep bringing it up. I am related to Da, but he does not figure into the story at all. So, don't look here for any information about him.
So far, you have heard about Momma and Papa and Jim and Larissa (that's me) and Da. Let's leave Da out of the story and get back to Momma. Momma took two pizzas out of the freezer and a tray of chicken wings. She put them in the oven and turned it on HIGH. Then she went to read whatever there was to read on the computer. Bye-the-bye, the smoke detector started to shriek. "Shriek, shriek, shriek, shriek," what an annoying noise, but Momma did not hear it, because she was wearing a head-set. Ninety-four times out of a hundred, Momma is nice, but she does not like to be interrupted when she is talking on the telephone or when she is "on" the computer. (Momma is never really "on" the computer; she is just sitting in front of the computer. She just says that she is on the computer. I think she has problems with prepositions, but I am "only" six-years-old, so I am not going to give Momma a lesson about the proper use of prepositions.)
This, however, was no time to spare anybody's feelings. I got between Momma and the computer and told her that black smoke was coming from the oven and that the smoke alarm was sounding-off.
Momma said, "Glory be to the father and the son and the holy ghost..." Then she ran to the oven and said, "Holy shit," and shut the oven off. She grabbed a mitt, which was pink and blue, my favorite colors, and opened the oven door. The pizzas were black and black, and the smoke coming from them was black and black. The chicken wings were on fire, and they were going crackle-crackle-crackle. Momma threw baking soda on the chicken wings, and then the fire went out.
"The dinner is ruined," she said, and then she said it again, but I said, "Don't worry, Momma. You just go sit in that soft chair and read your magazine. I'll fix us a dinner."
"But, you are only six-years-old."
I hear that a lot, but I said, "Don't let that bother you, Momma. It doesn't bother me a bit."
About that time, Poppa and Jim came through the front door, and Poppa said, "Smells good, whatever it is." Momma was about to say something, but I shook my head at her and whispered that I was going to get her a glass of sherry. Well, everybody said Hello to everybody else, and before they knew it, I had put glasses of beer in Poppa and Jim's hands and sherry in Momma's.
Then I started to make the pancake batter, which does not take a minute to do. Now, here is the extra that I do to the pancake batter (my secret, but I'll let my readers know:) I add a cup of cottage cheese and a cup of sour cream and a cup of sugar to the mix. Get the pan really hot, but not smoking hot like the pizzas and chicken wings. I add blueberries and raspberries to the cakes in the pan, put a shake or two of salt on top and a pinch or two of sugar, and there you are: even cranky people love these pancakes. (Hint: It's the extra sugar that puts the magic into those pancakes.)
So, it was two more beers for Poppa and Jim and another sherry for Momma, and we were eating those pancakes as fast as they came out of the pan. Jim said, "Those were the best damn pancakes I ever ate." Poppa and Momma do not like to say too many good things about me because, you guessed it, I'm "only" six-years-old, but I could see them shaking their heads in the affirmative, and they both ate enough pancakes to make their belly-buttons pop out.
There was one pancake left, and everybody was beyond full. I asked, "What shall I do with this last pancake?"
We have this little dog, a yellow dog, and he is so small he could fit in your shirt pocket. His name is, Whackyola. Whenever people are walking around he stays in a corner, so he doesn't get stepped-on. I could see Whackyola over in the corner looking at the pancake. He was wagging his tail so hard that his whole body was wagging. His tongue was hanging our of his mouth and spit was dripping from it. He looked stupid, but I was not going to say that out loud. So I said in a way he could understand, "How about if I give the last pancake to the dog?"
Whackyola gave out a whoop, jumped up in the air, and then he jumped up again. Now, that was a dog that surely appreciated my pancakes, no matter what Momma and Poppa did not say.
It was getting late, and nobody had said anything about Jim's dead cat, Jim. So, I said, "Jim, I heard your cat got run-over and was squished all over the road. That must have made quite a mess!" Momma jumped between me and Jim, and Poppa jumped between Momma and Jim and me, and Poppa said, "Larissa...."
Well, you can see for yourself, I have a Momma who does not use her prepositions properly and a Poppa who does not finish his sentences.
Nobody has to tell me when it is time to go to bed. So, I headed right to bed. Later, when it was quiet in the house, I heard Poppa say, "Those pancakes were damn-sure good. How do you think she does it?"
Momma said, "I have no idea, but they damn-sure were good, and she is only...."
"Don't let it bother you, Momma. It doesn't bother me one bit."
"Quiet in there!"
"Yea, quiet in there."
"Okay." I went back to writing in my book, under the covers, with a flashlight in one hand and a pen in the other. That is how come you were able to read this story about putting sugar in the pancakes. As for the parts about 'she is only six-years-old,' don't let it bother you. It doesn't bother me one damned bit.
