Oh. My. God. Y’ALL.
I am not an evil person (shut it) but I swear, if I ever see a pancake again I…I…I just don’t know WHAT I’ll do, but it’ll be graphic, painful and probably not within the confines of the Geneva Convention.
Last night, in the period of 90 minutes, I served 185 plates of pancakes.
Lemme tell you something about your pal Plummy. She may be front-of-the-house pretty, but she’s back-of-the-house mean, and if it hadn’t been for the outrageously filthy things the sous chef had been whispering in my ear with regard to the proper application of the bananas foster sauce (hint: not on pancakes, also probably illegal) SOMEONE would have gotten whacked with a ladle full of boiling hot wild blueberry compote.
Oh man, SPEAKING of ladles –and this has nothing to do with anything, except it’s my only ladel-related story and it’s awesome— a few years ago I was at a birthday party for a friend who worked in the newspaper industry. Now, newspapermen are a hard-drinking crew, and at one point I was doing shots of cachaça out of a ladle with a supremely good-looking Pulitzer-prize nominated critic whom I accidentally punched for calling me a pterodactyl. Of course in the cool light of day I came to discover he called me a polydidact which is a lot nicer and makes a lot more sense because he is a) a big fan of mine b) not generally in the habit of comparing girls to winged dinosaurs. Anyway, I called the hostess the next morning to thank her profusely and related the story and she paused for a second and said “um, Plummy, I don’t OWN a ladle.”
In honor of my newfound hatred of pancakes I give you today’s Big Question:
Today Miss Plumcake wants to know: what food will you never, ever, evereverever EVER eat again? Gimme some backstory here. Bonus points if it involves ladles.