When I make pancakes, they always look a little bit what I’d imagine pancake autopsies would look like. Or a failed science experiment of sorts. But my kids don’t care. They are happy to eat them even if they are never shaped the way pancakes are supposed to be shaped. And sometimes there are chocolate chips or sprinkles in them and then I’m basically hero for the day.

“Did you try to make them look like penguins?”

I had not tried. 

“Yes! Of course! I knew you guys would love penguin pancakes!”

See? HERO.

Until yesterday, of course. When on a freezing cold first day back to school after a long, long march break their {chef} father decides to surprise them with a pancake breakfast. I swear, you guys. He was standing in front of his pan like he was working at IHOP or something, flipping perfect pancakes onto their plates.

Their smiles told me exactly one thing: I will never be making another pancake again.

It’s fine, really. This is what living with a chef is like.

It’s not unlike what happened the first week my husband and I were married and I turned to him and said, “Which dry cleaner would you like me to take your shirts to?” and he turned to me without even a hint of irony or a joke, “Dry cleaner? Are you mad, woman? MY MOTHER IRONS MY DAD’S SHIRTS.”

And so like a dutiful 1950s housefrau I ironed his shirts — so unbelievably poorly; there may have even been a burn issue — with the iron we had received as a wedding shower gift.

The next week he was all, “I think there’s a One-Hour Martinizing near us?” And that was that. I never ironed a shirt again.

I probably should start becoming really, really bad at unloading the dishwasher and making school lunches.