Surely there could be nothing more uneventful than pancakes.
Unless of course you are the Oddnivore and your life has always contained “eventful” food:
We found something he can eat! Wahoo!
He actually likes the thing we found him to eat. Wahoo!
This thing we found him to eat that he even kind of likes is actually available in a mainstream grocery store and isn’t going cost us half a mortgage payment to purchase! Wahoo!!
The Oddnivore, now four, has been approved by his allergist to test for egg tolerance. So one might think this would have us running for the refrigerator section of the grocery store, to the roadside egg stand, to the chicken herself…
But that has not been the case. We leave no ruffled feathers in our wake (not that I ever would, harboring as I do a rather intense hatred for birds thanks to the many selfish deaths of baby robins upon the slab front porch of my earliest-childhood home—another story). When your child can eat only a smattering of all the foods available on the planet, you tend to find niche foods. And once you find your niche, once you’ve got a ring of potatoes and peas and Kix cereal and rice pasta and veggie cheese and hot dogs around you, your grocery life ring, you’re not necessarily itching to leave it. It’s comfortable. The Oddnivore is safe here, bobbing on a buoy of baked potatoes and hamburgers. There will be no reactions, only meals that pass blithely into oblivion. And we are all happy this way.
And the Oddnivore rather agrees: “I don’t want you to put eggs in my pancakes!”
It is Saturday, and sometimes on Saturday we can rally ourselves to a real meal. Well: we can rally ourselves to pancakes. And we thought—rather rationally—hey, this is a food that, even in the wheat- and dairy-free version enjoyed by the Oddnivore, could take the newly-permitted test egg. So we put it to the Oddnivore. Would you like to try an egg in your pancakes?
“Is it safe for me?”
“I don’t want it. Don’t put an egg in my pancakes.”
As a writer, I can hardly say I hate revision—you would scarcely be able to understand, stomach, etc, my writing without it. The first blush, though intoxicating, is unreliable.
But beyond that, I will boldly state that I hate revision. I hate getting things wrong. I hate changing what I thought was correct, was true—was what I thought I wanted known. This is because revision is exhausting. Undoing, and redoing, especially whilst dwelling within the Gaze (really, it is more than an 8th grade girl complex) is one of the most intimidating things I can think of.
You’re out there, and you’re watching me.
When the Oddnivore leaves the kitchen to find a toy, to sit down with his blocks, to find a movie, whatever it is—my husband cracks an egg into his pancake batter. “Don’t tell him. We’ll test it anyway.”
Later, breakfast now no more than a pile of dirty dishes, I hug the Oddnivore.
Did you know…there was an egg in your pancakes?
The Oddnivore’s mouth drops open, then his hands reach for his shirt. He checks his stomach—this is where we go to look for rashes sprung up after new foods.
“See, no rash!”
He is telling me now—like he knew all along about the egg, like I need to be told it’s okay, like I need to be convinced.
Are we revising? Oddnivore, you are convincing me.