As I observed here before, we have a (lapsed) family tradition of Dad making pancakes on Saturdays for breakfast. Back in antiquity, when the boys were very young, I’d put their initials on the pancake (reversed, so that when the pancake came off the griddle it would be right way ’round). One notorious morning, Nate asked me to write the Lord’s Prayer on his pancake; I think I got as far as “Our Father,” but I’m not sure.
This morning Philippa came downstairs and asked me to make pancakes. I assented, mixed the batter, started flipping cakes, and she followed up: “Would it be too weird to put granola in my pancake?” Well, no, I’m aware that many pancake houses offer granola pancakes on their menus, so I agreed to make her one. “Not only is it not weird, but at lots of places you can get chocolate chip pancakes.” Her eyes lit up. “We have chocolate chips!” (I should note for the historical record that this is the spiritually earnest young woman who gave up not only chocolate, but all sweets for Lent this year.) Sure, OK, her second pancake had chocolate chips in it.
“What’s next?” I should have known better than to ask.
“On my next pancake, I want you to write the Nicene Creed —