Nick has this…thing…for pancakes. I don't personally enjoy eating pancakes for breakfast: my body considers them rotten fuel to get me to midday. Nick's obsession bothers me quite a bit—mainly because I am the only person in residence who is capable of making pancakes (or so I am told). So when he starts in with his mumbles (looking through the cupboards, murmuring, "Hmm. What to have for breakfast…you know what would be perfect? PANCAKES!"), my feminist feathers get a little ruffled.

It's not that I mind cooking for someone, it's that I mind being expected to cook for someone: totally different. Nick becomes completely adorable when he goes into full-on pancake mode, and while I know that he doesn't expect me to serve him (he'd surely know better by now anyway), my right eye starts twitching.

I left him to his own devices when he got whiny last Saturday. My hair wasn't going to do itself, you know. He yelled countless questions from the kitchen to make sure he was doing everything correctly. When he started to get hysterical because he didn't know when to flip the pancakes, I called my hair done and went into the kitchen to shut him up help.

The oldest trick in the book: feign incompetence and someone will do it for you. Heck, I used it as a kid when I didn't want to wash dishes. I remember spending five minutes washing a juice glass once. Mom huffed and sent me to watch television so she could finish the job.

What? I was just being thorough.

So, yesterday afternoon I noticed we were precariously low on milk. (I make my pancakes with milk.) Being the evil person I am, I poured the last of what we had in a glass to drink. He went through his routine this morning, and noticing the empty milk jug in the recycling, pouted, "I bet we can't have pancakes without milk." Deflated, he flopped on the couch and stewed. I tried not to choke on my coffee.