(x-posted to AO and AG)

I thought I could. After all, I took a couple of typing courses in high school and I'm now at 100 wpm, so the couple of cooking courses I took in high school ought to make me an internationally-renowned chef, right?

Wrong.

I got up early this morning, on my last day off before starting my new job. This was intentional, as I planned to make beer batter blueberry pancakes using the Pumphouse's blueberry-flavored ale. It looked like a good idea on paper...but it's been a long time since I've tried to cook.

The end product resembled, in flavor if not color or texture, roughtly triangular pancakes, but that was only the last batch, post trial-and-error. Prior to that was an utter debacle. I'm uncertain as to whether those early attempts should be called "flopjacks" or "crapjacks," but they sure as hell weren't pancakes. So unused to being domestic was I that, as I cooked, the theme from Tokyo Breakfast was ringing through my head. Had my dear, decrepit old grandmother been roused from her slumber by the sumptuous scents of (let's be honest) smoke, and asked me what the hell I was trying to cook, the answer would have been "Your favorite, nigga: chicken and waffle!"

Should I ever attempt cookery again, methinks I'll make sure I have someone who knows what the hell they're doing standing over my shoulder. For the rest of you, the moral of the story is simple:

Don't bother making beer batter pancakes. It's nothing more than a waste of beer that would be better served cold and in a frosty mug. Just drink the beer and go to Smitty's . (Or vice versa, if you're driving)