~*The Perfect Pancakes*~
"Yes! Oh, yes!" Nealan of Queenscove shouted. "Finally!"
With loving care he placed the plate of hot blueberry pancakes on the table and gazed at them tearfully. Ha! his mind told his father triumphantly as he put a napkin over the pancakes to keep them warm. I told you I could cook, old man!
Unfastening the apron that said Homemakers Unite! in pink on the front from around his waist, Neal tossed it on the back of his chair and sashayed toward the kitchen drawers to withdraw his silverware.
On second thought, better I get out the good china.
Humming cheerfully, Neal opened the cabinet and took out some fragile looking eating utensils and placed them on he table. He then proceeded to pluck several flowers off a bush outside his window, dropping them in a water-filled vase, and placed the vase in the center of the table. Still unsatisfied, he felt around in another drawer and pulled out a placemat. On it was a picture of two nude blondes sitting on a log in a swamp.
"Perfect," Neal cooed.
He put the placemat on the table with exaggerated care, and then sat down in the chair. He painstakingly spread equal amounts butter on each of the pancakes and watched with rapt fascination the way it sizzled very quietly and melted against the delicious, crispy, bread.
I did it all by myself, he thought happily. After weeks of burning and undercooking—
And making Kel eat them, a nasty voice added—
I finally made the perfect pancakes.
Neal sighed, smiling softly, and reached for the syrup. His hand found empty air.
"Wha…? But the syrup is always here," he murmured, brown furrowing.
He gasped. Then that means…
"My syrup has been kidnapped," he screeched.
~*~
It's kind of a Nealified version of Mixed-Up Love and a Brick Wall. Yes, I will continue. Yes, the chapters will be longer. Hopefully.