The Battle of Pancake Hill

[Muffit]

Childhood is such sweet yesterdays. Wading through invisible toddling breakers, and food and drink as much a merriment to fondle as to ingest.



My older brother and I were quite the disparate pair; he a mischievous air of confidence, me a wispy reluctant doubter. But aye and anon we shared the sibling ties that bind. And one was competition – not of athletic sculpted prowess, scarce 5 years and 9 between us, but of things our tiny minds could hold to low lintels up like fleeting laurels of youth.



And one day, that battle was waged by tiny mouths and burgeoning teeth. Who could rule and who could rue, the day that one of us could eat the largest stack of mom’s delicious pancakes. The first went down so easily; the second I scarcely noticed, and thirds did me no harm at all, even as tiny as I was. But four was stretching my belly like a trimester fetus, and five an Outland bursting in the wings. This racer met the tape half way, and crumbled in defeat.



But swelling belly and chipmunk cheeks did not dissuade my hubristic elder’s hand to mouth pentathlon stride. The stack waned as the muncher waxed, and ere the hour was out, /twenty/ hapless disci met their final toss. Triumphant smiles beamed from the Olympic chair, till biology bid him retire to less attractive marble adulation.



But Housman’s admonition is still lost on us it seems, though we have traded thoughts for cakes of flour and water. The race we really need to win is just against ourselves, and self-acclaim at tissue’s end the only roses we need tossed on stage. The show I love, this “BSG”, has won its place on the only Olympic sill that really matters, the hearts of those that treasure it as I. And in those hearts it runs its race anew each beat and breath, though catcall bleachers greet its passing stride, and wins the wreath that cannot fade away.



The stature of a dream that will not die.



Affectionately,

Muffit

[Muffit]

Correction...

My brother has corrected my mixup of this memory, I think i was thinking of the taco contest (same house, same year). And yes, he did eat 20!

The pancake contest were actually dollar-sized (and near the end, not even fully cooked). The final score was 57 to 56!!! Yikes! We must've been two sick kids that afternoon!!!

[bsg1fan1975]

must have been! after two I am done!

[repcisg]

This was fun - do it again!

[Muffit]

Thanks Bsg! Thanks repcisg!

[thomas7g]

LOL.... I miss those days.

I remember in a hawaiian vacation my sister and I engaged in a lets gross out the parents fest. We combined pancake syrup, ketchup and coke and drank it with a fake yummy face to really make our folks nausious.

Those were the days.

[Muffit]

Thanks Thomas! Yep, those days were really special...

[bsg1fan1975]

I remember one time while we were on vacation back in my home state of Wisconsin my sister taking beer and combining it with orange juice. I thought that was the sickest thing I have ever heard of.

[Muffit]

Eww.. that does sound bad Bsg. Guess you don't wanna hear about my peanut butter and tuna fish sandwiches... :laugh:

[bsg1fan1975]

oh please. bad enough that I have felt sick to my stomach since last night.

[shiningstar]

Originally Posted by Muffit

Childhood is such sweet yesterdays. Wading through invisible toddling breakers, and food and drink as much a merriment to fondle as to ingest.



My older brother and I were quite the disparate pair; he a mischievous air of confidence, me a wispy reluctant doubter. But aye and anon we shared the sibling ties that bind. And one was competition – not of athletic sculpted prowess, scarce 5 years and 9 between us, but of things our tiny minds could hold to low lintels up like fleeting laurels of youth.



And one day, that battle was waged by tiny mouths and burgeoning teeth. Who could rule and who could rue, the day that one of us could eat the largest stack of mom’s delicious pancakes. The first went down so easily; the second I scarcely noticed, and thirds did me no harm at all, even as tiny as I was. But four was stretching my belly like a trimester fetus, and five an Outland bursting in the wings. This racer met the tape half way, and crumbled in defeat.



But swelling belly and chipmunk cheeks did not dissuade my hubristic elder’s hand to mouth pentathlon stride. The stack waned as the muncher waxed, and ere the hour was out, /twenty/ hapless disci met their final toss. Triumphant smiles beamed from the Olympic chair, till biology bid him retire to less attractive marble adulation.



But Housman’s admonition is still lost on us it seems, though we have traded thoughts for cakes of flour and water. The race we really need to win is just against ourselves, and self-acclaim at tissue’s end the only roses we need tossed on stage. The show I love, this “BSG”, has won its place on the only Olympic sill that really matters, the hearts of those that treasure it as I. And in those hearts it runs its race anew each beat and breath, though catcall bleachers greet its passing stride, and wins the wreath that cannot fade away.



The stature of a dream that will not die.



Affectionately,

Muffit

You're posts are insightful as always.

[Muffit]

Thanks Shiningstar!!!