Monday, April 10, 2006

Pattannica Pancakes, cont'd.:

So as I said, mother had made a dinner of potato pancakes, porkchops,and green beans --- with a little apple-sauce on the side. Everyone loved potato pancakes and my mother was kept busy making more pancakes and sipping wine.

Dad asked, "Oh, Dot! Could I have a few more pancakes?"

" 'Fraid not dear. I just gave the last one to your son!"

My father must have been stressed that day. He usually was. Most of the time about work and occassionally about Democrats and Communists --- whom he felt were about equally to blame for Socialistic Programs, the sexual revolution, and the Rolling Stones --- and generally anything he disliked or that went wrong with his life.

He blew his cork this time.

" Goddamn-it-all anyway! Why, in the name of Sweet Bleeding Jesus, can't I, the guy who busts his ass forty hours a week so you all can have a roof over your heads and all the food you can eat -- for free -- get a few extra potato pancakes?!?!"

My mother was standing next to Dad's large, long, red apoplectic head and casually poured a half a glass of wine over it. "You're a blithering idiot!", said she.

His head, already red from anger turned an almost alarming shade of purple as the wine dripped over the wispy hair on his balding head and dribbled over his face and eyes as he screamed:


Generally, Dad's outbursts were greeted with fear and trepidation. Bad things could happen when he lost his cool. But this time it was different. We all looked at him with suppressed grins and someone asked, "What was that you said? Pattannica Pancakes?"

To this very day me, my three sisters, my children, their children and their spouses will, when someone gets red-faced angry over some small thing, look at each other with amusement and say:

"Pattannica Pancakes!"

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