pancakes, pancakes!

October 16, 2009

Pancakes, Pancakes! by Eric Carle

This has been a big favorite in our house lately, as Eric Carle books usually are. The story is of Jack who wakes up one morning and wants pancakes for breakfast. His mother is very busy, so she tells him he will have to help her if he wants some pancakes (sounds reasonable enough).

First, she tells Jack that they will need some flour. But instead of going to the pantry to get it, he has to take a sickle, go into the wheat field and cut as much as the donkey can carry!


At this point, I am already tired and am quite willing to give up my dream of pancakes and settle for a nice cold bowl of cheerios. But Jack is not daunted. He gets the wheat, takes it to the miller.

There, the wheat is beat down with a flail to separate the wheat from the chaff, it is then ground down into flour, which Jack can now take home.

But his mom is not ready for the pancakes yet, now Jack must get some eggs. He goes to the hen house and feeds the chickens who then lay him some eggs.

The rest of the ingredients must be gathered the hard way as well: he has to go milk the cows, chop wood for the fire, and go to the basement to get some strawberry jam. (That last one is not so hard--I was expecting him to have to go into the fields and gather the fruit.)

Finally, his mother helps him make the pancakes and then, poor hungry Jack who has definitely worked hard for his meal today, gets to eat them.

The morning after we read this book, Juliet woke up, came downstairs, and asked for, yep, you guessed it, pancakes for breakfast. So, I opened up the freezer, pulled out the box, popped them into the toaster, and was very thankful for Trader Joe's. No chopping wheat for me today!

Pancake related side-story:

Last week, I took Juliet to the doctor to get her flu shot. I thought it would make it easier on her if I also got a flu shot that day. We were BOTH getting them, fair and square, or so I thought. Instead of calmly accepting the shot (shocker, I know.) Juliet was completely outraged and seemingly mortally wounded by the injection.

She was crying and whimpering and as I was trying to comfort her I asked, no begged, desperately, "Juliet! I'm so sorry! Please stop crying! What would make you feel better?!!"

And through the teary eyes and runny nose and matted down hair, I managed to hear her say in a tiny, yet hopeful voice, "Syrup would make me feel better, Mama."

And that's how we ended up at McDonalds that morning, pouring multiple boxes of processed syrup all over a nice steaming plate of pancakes.

Don't tell Jack's mom.


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