Ode to Dan / Houndstooth

He had planned on making them all breakfast. Pancakes from scratch. He’d done it once before. Everyone was congregated in the kitchen, sharing stories from the night before, laughing and hungry, heads throbbing. He was working as fast as he could. He was hung over and couldn’t remember how much baking soda to use. Or was it baking powder? Was it tablespoons or teaspoons? Not only did he not know the answer, he knew that he would guess wrong. He was never more sure of anything in his life. Soon enough it came to pass. The batter was all fucked up. These pancakes weren’t going to work. Motherfucker. He sensed a lull in the conversation behind him. The dread that enveloped him was now spreading to the rest of his guests.

“How are those pancakes coming?”

He wanted to say fine. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to tell. He knew they’d be shit bricks but dump enough syrup on ‘em. . . He wasn't the only one with a hangover after all.

“Don’t you have any of that instant shit where you just add water?”

Maybe he could start over. He’d have to run to the store to pick up some new ingredients. Eggs, milk, flour, fuck it. It was 20 minutes to the grocery store. He didn’t even remember where he’d parked his car.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?”

He brutally fought every last urge in his body to toss the frying pan across the kitchen. More than anything he now just wanted to go back to bed. He felt every eyeball lasered to the back of his skull as he clumsily stirred the shit brick batter and briefly opened and closed the oven door for some reason. Why was life so god damned hard?

He spoke.

“These pancakes aren’t going to work. I either used too much or not enough baking soda or powder. There’s a great greasy spoon type diner down the street. About a 10-minute walk. You guys wanna go there?”

This was fine with everybody. They had all expected him to chuck that frying pan. Maybe punch a hole in a wall. They were all quite impressed with the rally and the suggestion. They had a lovely breakfast.