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The Fatal Tendency

I have a Fatal Tendency. I think I was cursed by an evil fairy when I was a child.

It’s embarrassing, but I’m going to confess it to the world-wide interwebs anyhow.

Every food I make turns out really weird. I guess you could say I’m sort of like King Midas, but without the gold.

You remember the muffins, yes? Like that.

Also the brownies, about which I never told you. I didn’t even know you could do that to brownies. It’s a long story, which I’ll save for some other time. Multiple awkwards were involved. Then there was the time at school when I made cappuccino muffins for my church van. The muffins were actually good, but nobody in my van likes coffee. In fact, they have serious aversions to coffee so strong that they can’t even stand of teaspoon of it in a muffin. Accident? No. Fatal Tendency.

Yesterday I forgot to put sugar in the lemonade. Have you ever had unsweetened lemonade? If it were anyone else, we could just blame it on being careless, but with me…it’s simply a symptom of the Fatal Tendency. Like the time in highschool when I made burritos (or maybe they were enchiladas, I don’t know) for my family. The sauce I used was hot sauce, and my family only eats mild. My little brother started crying. My little sister drank twelve glasses of water. Since I didn’t purchase the hot sauce, you could say it wasn’t my fault…but since it ended up on a food I prepared, we know that the Fatal Tendency has struck once again. Last week, I was making bread, and accidentally confused the wheat flour with the malt-o-meal. Honest mistake? Nope, Fatal Tendency.

This morning, my younger siblings requested pancakes for breakfast. I happily obliged. After rummaging around to find the recipe–we have a lot of recipe books in this home–I finally discovered it in Ruth’s book. That means she copied it out of somewhere when she was probably eleven, because she’s always been ahead of me in these matters. The whole hand-written-by-Ruth-bit is important, so don’t forget it.

I set to mixing up the batter; her directions were simply “stir everything together,” so I sorted out the list of ingredients to add them in the most logical order. Batter is ready, syrup is being syruped, griddle is warming–how hot is this supposed to be? I tried my dad’s water-flicking trick and it sizzled, so I poured out six nice round pancakes to fry. They looked rather anemic, somehow. I worked on dishes as I waited for them to fry.

Apparently, my griddle wasn’t actually warm enough, because those things took forever, and looked anemic the whole time. I finally pried six pale, rubbery disks off the griddle, and poured on six more circles of batter. The griddle should be warmer now; hopefully these would be better.

Meh. These six also turned out sickly-looking, and they were similarly scooted off the griddle suspiciously. What is wrong with you, pancakes? Are you rising at all??

Wait. Were they supposed to rise?

I re-read the recipe. There, smushed on the very bottom of the list. 1 T. baking powder.

I know for a fact that those pancakes had exactly no baking powder.

Oops. Well, that would be the problem. The Fatal Tendency strikes again.

I didn’t say anything–just kept on making pancakes. Soon Jacob and Lilly showed up. They pronounced them delicious.

I love little kids.

Ben knew something was wrong with them as soon as he saw them, but like a man, he ate them anyhow.

I drowned mine in syrup.

This morning, I start a job at Dairy Queen. Should I tell them what happens to the food I touch? Or should I simply hope that I’ll be assigned the drive-thru?

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