Ode to Pancakes (and how I love thee)

Ode to Pancakes and how I love thee,
Your mounds of goodness are a sight to be seen.
Fluffy and light,
Tasty and fulfilling,
It's all I can do to save you for an occasional treat.

Morning or afternoon,
Day or night,
Late or early,
Pancakes are always welcome in my belly.

Syrup or butter,
fruit or whipped cream,
Even with yogurt or fruit,
Pancakes are a sweet culinary dream.

You can tear them,
You can slather them in syrup,
Or you can cover them in butter,
You can even freeze them for later.

Beware jealous eyes and tongues!
Be wary and aware,
For whoever tries to take my pancakes,
Even a tiny little bite or minuscule crumb,
Will wind up with a fork in their eyeball and syrup in their lungs.

You can make pancakes with blueberries,
pumpkin, apples and cinnamon or even cheesecake,
You can even make wheat pancakes,
though that isn't much fun at all.

Whether you dine on chocolate pancakes,
blueberry, strawberry or just plain,
Pancakes are truly the king of breakfast,
no scone, crepe or biscuit could compare. (Well, maybe a really fluffy biscuit.)

I've had blueberry and pumpkin,
Thick and thin,
Eaten them in cafes, fine restaurants and my own kitchen,
But there is one type of pancake that is ideal, no other can ever compare.

A peanut butter pancake with jelly syrup-- Try it if you dare!

Bickering Biddies

"Bill! Bill!" the frumpy brown bird snapped, shaking her already ruffled feathers. "How could you be so clueless?"

"I wasn't the one who made us late obsessing over what worm to eat and how many calories were in those red berries!" a black bird snarled back. His sharp beak opened as the acid words dripped off his tongue. "Besides, you fly so low you could practically ride on a worm!"

The brown bird gasped. "You're such a jerk!" she snarled. "At least I can see my feet! When's the last time you saw yours?"

The black bird stared at his plump middle, his face contorted in an expression of pain. I could practically see the thoughts churning in his head as he rejected them one by one.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter," the brown bird griped. "We're completely lost thanks to you. Really, what kind of bird brain doesn't stop and ask for directions?"

"Margaret, I am a bird!" the black bird bellowed. "I am a creature of nature. I am a fierce being that commands the skies! I don't need directions."

"You need a brain transplant," the brown bird snapped. "What kind of moron goes south for the winter? We're supposed to be north! I could be dining on blueberries and watching a moose frolic right now. Instead, my feet are burning on asphalt and the only hotel available is a cactus."

"Maybe I just wanted to be different," the black bird argued. "Besides, we're not lost. I just took the long way."

"The cross-continental way!" the brown bird screeched. "By the time we get up north, it will be time to go south again."

"I don't need directions!" the black bird bellowed. "Nag, nag, nag, nag, nag. I'm surprised I have any brains left. You've probably eroded them with your tongue."

"Don't blame your stupidness on me," the brown bird hollered. "You know, my mother told me I should have married that bluejay. I bet if I married him I wouldn't be lost in a parking lot somewhere in the middle of nowhere. I wouldn't be hot, tired and hungry."

"Maybe you should have!" the black bird screeched. "Then he could have been pecked to death instead of me."

They glared at each other, their feathers tousled around them and their beaks gleaming in the sunlight.

"Now what?" the brown bird snapped.

"I think I recognize that cloud," the black bird said. "Let's go that way."

"Only if you ask for directions," the brown bird said. As I watched, they glared at each other in the parking lot. Then with a sigh, both birds took to the air and flapped their wings toward a large cloud. As they ascended into the air, I heard a sheepish voice say, "Whoops, guess that wasn't the right cloud after all. Maybe if we try that tree over there..."

Just one bite

"Welcome to the 21st Anniversary of the Spectacular Pie Show," the announcer bellowed into the microphone. I applauded politely with the others, trying to restrain my drool. "The Spectacular Pie show honors pies as a art and a sculptural culinary delicacy," the announcer continued. I narrowed my eyes and peered at him from across the crowded ballroom. He looked suspiciously like that guy off CSI that is obsessed with intertwining his sunglasses with dramatic moments.

"Twenty young hopefuls have spent months creating pies that are not only delicious, but fabulous to look at," the announcer shouted, coercing the sleepy crowd into polite coos of admiration. "The winner of the contest wins $100,000 to start their own bakery, this mixer courtesy of..."

I squirmed impatiently in my seat and rubbed my tongue over my teeth. I did not care about the prizes or the lovely sponsors. I was just here for the pie.

It haunts my dreams.

"Now, without further ado, I present your three judges." The announcer turned and pointed to us. I waved, but my eyes were focused on the apple crumble pie that had been fashioned into some abstract beach house. The cinnamon and sugar shoreline made my stomach rumble. Swallowing my drool, I nudged a fellow judge.

"I claim that one," I murmured. He turned to me, raising his bushy white eyebrows in shock.

"Madame, this contest is about culinary artistry and mastering the fine art of creating a pie! You can not claim a pie!"

"Don't be jealous," I snorted, tossing my hair. "That's my pie." The judge on my right glares at me and I grin. She was obviously not smart enough to claim her favorite pie in advance.

The bakers began to come forward, each bringing some over-the-top creation and babbling on about its meaning and what it stands for. There is a chocolate creme moose, lemon meringue blowfish and blueberry ozone catastrophe. Each pie is fashioned to look like a tragic museum accident, and I pay no attention. Besides the coconut cream blizzard, my lips are reserved for the apple pie. Of course, the apple pie baker is quavering in the back.

Number 19. The bakers drag on and on, their dribble running through my ears and out of my nose. A smile is frozen to my lips, but my tongue longs to scoop up chunks of apple in a sugary cinnamon glaze in a butter crust. I don't care if the moronic baker made the pie to look like my butt--it's apple pie. With crumbles. And golden brown crust. I can smell the cinnamon from across the room. I tap my toes and try to distract myself by singing the alphabet. I get stuck on pie.

Finally, baker 19 strides forward. "I give you," he announces in his best "I'm a real baker voice," "Apple beach cottage. I used gala, pink lady and green apples for the base and a homemade simple pie crust. For the top, I crumbled brown sugar, white sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg into fresh butter. It is a masterpiece."

"I'll say," I say, swatting the other judges' away. I glare at the man with disapproving white eyebrows. "Hey, slick, you ate nine pies and half of the lemon meringue. Back off." Falling back, he sets his fork down. I slide my fork through the tender apples and crust, scooping up some of the cinnamon and brown sugar crumbles with my fork. Opening my mouth, I close my eyes in pleasure as the fork reaches my lips....

A banshee scream that sounds like nails scraping against steel jolts me out of bed. My feet are running the second they touch the floor. Flinging the bedroom door open, I rush down the hall and to the gate. Two white bellies are dancing in front of it, with two tails wagging eagerly. There's only one puppy who could make that noise. I look at the tiny white Chihuahua flinging herself against the baby gate.

Bitty rolls over for a belly rub. I check her paws, her eyes, her tail and her tummy for signs of abuse from Bear. She shoves her tongue up my nose.

"You know," I said, leaning over the gate. "I was about to have some apple pie when you woke me up. I was judging an important contest. The crust was tender and flaky, the apples smelled so delicious..." I trail off and close my heavy eyes, the taste fresh on my tongue.

They don't care about my pain.

Something is dripping on my fingers. I look up and see Bear has wiped his dripping nose all over my hand after submerging it in his water bowl. Bitty is chewing on my thumb and has no interest in my dreams of pie.

"You don't care, do you?" I asked. The Babies wiggle and wag their tails. Shaking my head, I stumble back down the hall.

"Just one bite..." I muttered as I crawled back into bed. "I just wanted one bite."

The Land of the Flowered Bed heads North 2

Continued from last week....

As the door creaked open slowly, a snowy mountain sloped downhill to a grey stream. Lush green bushes and pink flowers lay to their left, while a large leafy tree stretched miles above them. Giddy, the seals chattered and leaped onto the snowy mountain. Giggling, they lay on the white surface and traced designs with their tails.

"This is gorgeous," Cookies said, thrusting his head into the bushes. "So lush and green!"

"Is this the cold rivers with clay from the glaciers?" Hairy asked, staring down at the straight grey stream. "It's got so many pebbles!"

"It's ok," Pumble grumbled. He was still sore over missing out on a honey hamburger. "Isn't it supposed to be cold? It's hot out here."

"Well, I think it's wonderful," Hairy said. He took a deep breath of the warm, humid air. "I'm sure we just came during a heat spell." He snuck a look over at Miss Moose McKinley. Her eyes were wide and her mouth gaped open. She looked at the snowy hill and bushes, just shaking her head.

"Where are the moose at?" Cookies pondered, sticking his head in another bush. "All I see are spiders."

The seals squealed and jumped up, dancing on the surface of the snowy mountain.

"Snow can't be hot," Pumble argued, giving them a long suffering sigh. "You've probably got frostbite on your back or something."

"I'm sure we'll find some moose or bears soon," Hairy said confidently, fanning himself as sweat ran down his back. "We just need to"--

"This isn't Alaska!" Miss Moose McKinley cried. She buried her hands in her hooves. "That's not a snowy mountain, it's a driveway. Those bushes are just common shrubs. And you won't find any moose because there's a cactus in the yard with no water nearby! This isn't Alaska. Not even a case of global warming could make it this hot! It's a suburb in the desert!" She burst into tears, her shoulders heaving with sobs. "I'll never get back home!" Wailing at the top of her lungs, she turned and ran through the door. Her hooves clattered as she ran across the brown tile. Pumble sniffed and glared at Hairy.

"I did all this for a non-existent hamburger, and this isn't Alaska?" he said in disbelief. "You better pray someone set up a hamburger stand when we get home. I'm starving."

Sighing, Hairy cast one more look around the North. The sun beat down on his head and he could fill the sweat running beneath his fur.

"Goodbye, Alaska," he whispered. He gathered the seals and pulled Cookies out of the bush. For the rest of the day, they walked home.

There was no hamburger stand, but there was a small butterfly selling honey gumdrops in the hallway. Pumble was reasonably satisfied when he waddled into the Land of the Flowered Bed with the seals, Hairy and Cookies trailing behind him. Though he was prepared to whine, one look at her face stopped him. Cookies started toward them, but Hairy put a hand on his chest. They stood with the seals, watching silently.

Setting his bag gently on the ground, Pumble plopped next to her and offered her a cookie. Miss Moose McKinley shook her head. Taking a bite, Pumble chewed and spewed crumbs as he spoke.

"You can still find Alaska, you know."

"On the television?" Her eyes looked glazed, as if she had cried for so long all the shininess had worn off. "It's not the same."

Pumble shook his head. "No it's not. But you can still go there, if you try."

"You mean on a plane?" Her voice was glum. "I'd have to find someone to take me to the airport, then find my way on a plane, then find someone to get me off a plane. And who's going to believe a talking moose?"

"All you got to do is close your eyes," Pumble said, pulling another cookie out of his bag and tearing off a chunk. "Close your eyes and think about the trees, the cold grey water, your moose friends."

"Use my imagination?" Miss Moose McKinley said with a snort. "It's hardly the same."

"I never said to do that," Pumble said, digging another cookie out of his bag. "I just wanted you to dream." Miss Moose McKinley stared up at him as he got to his feet, his enormous belly swaying from side to side.

"Even if you were to get on a plane and fly home, it wouldn't be the same," Pumble said, popping the last bit of cookie in his mouth. "People would be gone, businesses would change and things would be different. The only way to ever stay the same is to visit in your dreams."

The moose smiled up at him. "Thanks," she whispered. She gazed off into the distance, a smile spreading over her face as if she was already dreaming. "I guess until I return, this will do for now." Pumble smiled and scurried off to his kitchen, dragging his sack of goodies behind him.

Cookies nudged Hairy. "Did I just see what I thought I saw?" he asked. "Was Pumble actually nice to someone? He didn't snarl, didn't put up a fuss...he even offered her part of his cookie!"

Hairy turned to him with a grin. "I can dream, can't I?"

That night, as the animals curled up for bed, only one thing was on their minds. As they lay down to sleep, their minds thought of the lush green forests, the steep white mountains and the cold grey river.

After all, they could see the land in their dreams.

The Land of the Flowered Bed goes North

Pumble crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes.

"I'm not going," he announced, plopping on the bag he had packed that morning.

"And why not?" sighed Hairy.

"I've got a million things to do around here!" Pumble objected. "I've got cakes to bake for the Labor Day party"--

"That's in a month," Cookies pointed out.

"I've got all those pies to make for the Flying Pigs"--

"They're still eating the pies you made them last week," Cookies said, pointing to the pigs. They were clutching their bloated bellies and moaning, grass stains still around their lips.

"I promised Ladybug I'd go with her to the cricket concert," Pumble finished triumphantly. "And I've got to buy all new socks."

"You don't wear socks," Hairy reminded him gently, taking his arm. "And the concert is next week."

"I'm far too busy to go North," Pumble argued, grasping onto the wall as Hairy tried to jerk him up. His face turned red as he strained to hold on. "I've got things to do. I'm a busy bee."

"You're a"-- Cookies stopped midsentance, warned by Hairy's glare. "I was just going to say he was fat," he mumbled under his breath.

"Come on, Pumble," Hairy grunted, heaving with all his strength. "The seals and Miss Moose McKinley have already started down the hallway. We've got to catch up with them!"

"I'm BUSY!" Pumble bellowed, digging his fingers into the wall.

"He's too scared," snickered the first duck in the Spa. They were poking their heads out of the bathtub, observing the whole scenario.

"He's a big fat wuss," snickered the second duck.

"If you need more help, I could go with you," the third duck offered.

"That won't be necessary," Hairy smiled. Inside, he was seething. They had a tight travel schedule and Pumble's antics had put them 30 minutes behind. "Pumble, have you had one of the new hamburgers in the hallway?"

"There's no hamburgers in the hallway."

"Sure there is," Cookies piped up, winking at Hairy. "That new place opened up. Their specialty is honey burgers. I'm sure a fellow of your girth could easily down nine or ten at a time."

"Did you say honey burgers?" Drool dripped onto Hairy's arms.

"Any kind of burger you like," Hairy agreed. "And all sorts of tasty fries and biscuits"-- With a shriek of delight, Pumble leaped from the wall, knocking Hairy to the ground. Grabbing his bag, he sprinted out the door.

"Last one there is a rotton egg!" he called as he ran down the hall.

"What are you going to do when he realizes there's no hamburger place?" Cookies muttered.

"Pray that there's one in the Great Open Room," Hairy answered. A howl ahead assured him that Pumble would be pouting once they caught up to them.

A few hours later, they had made it down the hallway, across the living room and were standing at the edge of the Brown Tile River.

"After this, we just have to pass the Front Door and we'll make it onto the Stone Snow Hill," Miss Moose McKinley said dreamily. "And then we'll be in Alaska!"

"Whatever," Pumble grumbled. "Let's just get this over with."

"How are we going to get across?" Hairy asked, staring at the tile. "Is it safe to swim in?"

"This time of year, the river is frozen over," Miss Moose McKinley said. "You can walk across it, see?" She placed a delicate brown hoof on the tile and added her other front foot. Giggling with delight, the seals flew across the river on their bellies. Miss Moose McKinley trotted easily across, while Cookies and Hairy followed slowly behind. Hairy heard a bellow and turned. Pumble was sprawled out on the surface of the brown tile, the contents of his sack scattered across the floor. He glared up at Hairy as he struggled to get to his feet.

"You owe me a hamburger," he snarled. "A honey burger. With biscuits. And fries."

Hairy rolled his eyes.

Finally, they all made it across the tile hallway. Taking a deep breath, Miss Moose McKinley turned to them and smiled.

"Here goes," she whispered. With a turn of her hoof, the Front Door opened slowly. The animals gasped in amazement.

To be continued...

Ladies' Lunch

*I know I was supposed to give you a Land of the Flowered Bed tale, but I'm saving it for tomorrow. Never fear! You'll be entertained by "The Land of the Flowered Bed has a Northern Adventure."

In a quaint little building tucked into a corner of the city where the wild oak trees still roamed free, the blond girl waited impatiently. She and her black-haired buddy were older now, long past the days of ringlets and tea parties.

Well, tea parties every day at least and ringlets every other.

But today, her raven haired friend was stuck in the evil land of grey cubicles and beige walls and couldn't escape. Today she was meeting a new friend, one that was not familiar with the joy of escaping to lunch.

After a quick hug, they scurried over the twisted wooden staircases scattered with leaves from the overhanging oak trees. They wove past the shops, pointing at the windows filled with colorful treasures and making a mental note to return. Finally, they stepped into the restaurant. The blond girl sighed with pleasure as her new friend gasped in surprise.

The restaurant was small, with wooden tables and walls covered with white wallpaper checkered with red apples and gingham checks. Cheery tablecloths dotted the small wooden tables as older women with kind smiles and frilly aprons carried plates of cream cheese sandwiches and soups to tables. The entire restaurant was stuffed with women of all ages and sizes. There were little girls lunching with their mothers and older daughters with their friends. There were aunts with their nieces and grandmothers with their daughters and granddaughters. The room was full with friends, neighbors and loved ones, some who were meeting for the first time.

"It's like a tea party!" the friend exclaimed. The blond girl smiled. They took their seats and ordered sandwiches and chips. Over their meals, they chattered about their husbands, dogs, jobs and hobbies. The blond girl smiled as women from other tables asked about their meals or commented on their shoes.

"Don't forget to save room," the blond girl warned.

"For what?" her friend asked, warily staring at her empty plate.

"For that," the blond girl grinned. She pointed at a glass case stuffed with every pie imaginable. There were cookies and cakes and tarts at a smaller case next to it. Her friend stared at the cream and meringue pies, her gaze lingering on a simple apple crumb.

"Oh Lord," she groaned. "Well, I guess calories don't count."

"Of course not," a woman spoke up next to her. She indicated the chocolate cake she was sharing with her young daughter. "Nothing counts at a ladies' lunch."

The blond girl smiled. She couldn't have said it better herself. Leaning back in her chair, she ordered a piece of pie.

After all--it was a ladies' lunch.

On Writing

It occurred to me yesterday as I was driving home that some of my new Invisible Friends have no idea who I am.

They know I am crazy about Bitty and Bear, the two Chihuahuas that rule my life with a fuzzy iron fist.

They know I adore Ben, though they may not know who he is. (My husband!)

They know that I talk to spiders, consort with ladybugs and have conversations with everyone's favorite obnoxious insect, the Ginormous Lime green Unusual Gnat (GLUG.)

But you don't know why I write, what I write or if I'm simply a lunatic that manages to get ahold of a keyboard with an Internet connection every few days.

Well, I write because I have to. Since 4th grade when I declared I would be a writer and illustrator, that's always been my main goal in life. My day job changed from day to day (ever practical, I knew I would need a day job at the age of 9,) but my overall dream never changed. In fact, let's not call it a dream. Let's call it an inevitable occurrence. Because eventually my nagging query letters will wear down some agent or editor until they are forced to love me and my work and let me run rampant publishing whatever thought comes into my head.

Currently, I write children's fiction--specifically middle grade fiction and young adult. For not literature snobs, that means books for children 8 to 20. I do have a picture book based on a blog entry called "If I was a dog," being submitted to companies. I've gotten a lot of good responses, but with the current economy, companies are skittish about taking on a brand-new author for a picture books. But several agents and editors have expressed interest in further work, so hooray!

I didn't always plan on writing children's fiction. About two years ago, I sent off a ton of imaginative stories to magazines and publishers. I also sent off a women's fiction (for adults) novel called, The Reluctant Bride, which was about a girl fighting a traditional marriage and her bridezilla maid of honor. They were rejected, and I got depressed. I then wrote a women's fiction novel about a couple falling in love from a dog's point of view. It got a lot of attention, but no bites. I'm still holding on to it though. I'm going to revise it so it's even better (e-mail me if you want details), then send it off again.

During my depression over the letdown of my women's fiction novel, I started working on a book for children about a little girl who finds a dolphin in her swimming pool. For the first time in a long time, I was excited about writing again. What started as a short story became a longer story and turned into a 150 page book for kids. Like Missing Wings, I had this intense drive and need to finish it. Currently, it's being revised and then I'll send it out to publishers.

I could do this forever. Write a story, revise, revise some more, revise nine more times, send out letters, get rejected, revise five more times, send out more query letters, etc.

But I've got a new idea. I need your help to write a book.

Yes, your help.

Since most of you voted for trying Missing Wings through lulu.com, I've got a brilliant idea. I want you to help me shape the book into it's final form. We can brainstorm about plot ideas, talk about cover art, characters, illustrations, scenes, why I'm crazy, whatever you would like. I can post certain sections I'm having trouble with and ya'll could vote and comment.

Excuse me, you're thinking. What's in it for us?

Let me tell you what's in it for YOU, dear Invisible Friends!

This would be the first book ever to be written with input by the blogging community.

Is that not the coolest thing ever? Aren't you tingling with excitement?

Think about it. You can design your shoes, you can design your recipes, you can design your home. Why not have input on a story that entrances you and makes your toes tingle? It'd be like getting a front row seat in a author's brain as she puts a story together.

Now, you won't see the whole book. You'll have to buy it to see what really happens. Because, after all, I am a professional.

Right.

So, please, Invisible Friends, spread the word! Tell your friends, your mom, your menopausal boss and your unresponsive son! Tell your other blog friends, bloggers you admire or even your 80-year-old grandmother who keeps trying to take a lighter to your computer because she thinks you're saying "log."

Because, I think this is a marvelous creative adventure for us all. After reading your blogs, I realized there's a caring community of men and women out there who support and cheer on one another. You support each other's Etsy shops, your culinary endeavors and your long days of teaching. Imagine being the forefront of a new kind of literature. Imagine working together to create a book that's better than discovering a hidden journal in the corner of an old attic.

You see, I have other ideas. Great ideas. And if this all works out, we might be able to whip up something every woman needs in her life.

Spread the word, Invisible Friends! We're going to have a literary adventure! Are you with me??

And if you want to know more about why I'm a writer, why I call myself the Blonde Duck or if I'm "special," don't hesitate to e-mail me. Just leave a comment and I'll send you my e-mail.


(Don't worry. Tomorrow there's a new Land of the Flowered Bed and fun stories will resume!)