Perfect Pancake

Rachel is in the kitchen helping Daddy make dinner right now. They're making pancakes. Andrew poured a perfectly round pancake and flipped it just so. It was the perfect pancake.

"Wow!" he said, "That's a perfect pancake! Can you say 'perfect pancake,' Rachel?"

Rachel looked at him and said, "No. Hard say, 'perfect pancake!'"

"But you just said perfect pancake!" he said.

Silly girl. She often declares that things are too hard to do and then does them, anyway. I don't know why she underestimates herself.

She also just touched the pan. Not like "don't touch the stove and/or pan and/or oven and/or anything in that vicinity" hasn't been a rule since forever ago. She handled things okay until I walked into the kitchen and then she burst into tears.

"Dachel touch stove!" she wailed, "Hurt singer!"

She was cradling her index finger and absolutely howling. I took her to the tap to run it under cold water.

"Seel better," Rachel said after a few minutes.

It can't be that bad of a burn because I can't see anything...it's hardly even redder than her other fingers. Still, she's continuing to baby it and can't stop talking about it.

"Dachel touch stove. Owie!" she said.

"Yeah, we don't touch the stove. How come?" I asked.

"How tome?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Why?"

"Why don't we touch the stove, Rachel?" Andrew asked.

"'Cuz--hot!" she answered right away.

Sure, sure, answer him and not me.