Sunday pancakes are a bit of a family tradition. I can remember Dad yelling “PANCAKES” and all of us rubbing the sleep out of our eyes, and running down the stairs to plates full of warm, stacked pancakes. The first one down could usually claim the Sunday comics, and first dibs on the syrup. Brothers being brothers, we also competed to see who could out-eat the others. Fortunately, I think Dad usually ran out of batter.
Last week, a co-worker brought in a pumpkin pie – a real pumpkin pie, she noted. Not one of those …
