Saturday morning, 7:30 am
I share a house with three crazy Italians, that's all there is to it.
The first one, Fellini, slunk in from the garden like a truculent teenager, pretending as though nothing was wrong. It was the first time he had stayed out on the town all night and evidently there were to be no apologies. After engaging in a staredown with me to prove he wasn't tired, he immediately fell asleep sitting up.
Moving into the kitchen, my second Italian was standing in the middle of the kitchen looking utterly dazed. I threw myself into action mode. Before you could say, "uno, due, tre," I had a moka pot filled with personality bubbling away on the stove.
Just as the true indication of royalty is the inability to sleep on a pea, the true Italian undergoes a transfiguration when orally infused with caffeine. Sure enough, within minutes, my uomo went from from grumpy to garrulous to outright giddy.
Espresso coursing through his veins, he proceeded to whip up a batch of my father's famous Norwegian pancakes with such focus and speed that I was rendered mute by his prowess.
We were just sitting down to a breakfast al fresco...
...when loud thumping on the stairs heralded the imminent arrival of the third ragazzo in the house. Without a word to either of us, he stomped outside and plopped down by the pool.
Me: Good morning, sunshine.
Me: Are you hungry?
Me: Daddy made pancakes.
Anxious to prevent his sleepiness from mushrooming into churlishness, I realized I needed a game changer. Fast.
Me: Well, you're sitting awfully close to the pool and we're just about to eat breakfast, so be careful. I don't want you falling in. Do you hear me? Do. Not. Even. Think. Of. Accidentally. Falling. In. The. Pool. With. Your. Clothes. On.
And peace was restored to the land.
After all, pancakes eaten when wet taste much more delicious than pancakes eaten when dry.
And how was your weekend?