My Private Wobegon

stories from home

The hot steam of the rough equivalent of 10 eggs cooking on a hot plate of steel filled the small diner with a familiar odor to any of the town's 150 or so inhabitants who frequented it. Pa and Ed were sitting talking about the terrible weight that bales of straw can accumulate when they sit out in a summer rainstorm.

Bauton Pillroy was at the large griddle with a facial expression which showed consternation and mixed pride. After years of using a largely dented can to pour the batter for pancakes and waffles, the establishment was the proud owner of a new and exciting machine: the Princeton Vincent Batter Dispensing Machine. The very name made it sound like an exotic product from some of the finest shops in Europe. A shiny Ford Edsel had pulled up the previous day and a peculiar man in a suit had walked in and purchased a cup of coffee. A sort of random discussion about cooking and appliances in the modern electric kitchen had somehow led to the importance of saving money on menial tasks. Like batter dispensing. Now before him was this large copper and aluminum device with a modern boomerang across the front. The name was in chromed cursive. He thought about how perhaps it had changed the way he did business. He was also quite sure that everyone in the town would be equally impressed with his wondrous toy.

"Yes, I would say one of those must weigh over 150 pounds after a good downpour," said Pa.

"Just about have to make a second run with th' truck," Ed added.

Grace, the establishment's only waitress, waved her stubby pencil. "What you fellahs havin' today?"

"B'lieve we're gonna have some of them pancakes," Ed said without really looking up at her powdered and lipsticked face. "Pancakes - two of 'em!"

Grace turned her head and yelled at the chef.

Hisssssssssssssss-was the sound of several pancakes hitting the grill in a perfectly metered fashion. Clockwork, thought Bauton. Just clockwork the way the cakes took on uniform proportions. The plates were stacked and given the uniform application of butter and syrup. The plates were clacked down in unison on the well-weathered countertop in front of the two men. A brief pause as the two turned almost in disappointment at the realization that breakfast was another reason they came here-not just to conversate. Ruffling of napkins, silverware being organized. The men were ready to attack the stacks of pancakes before them. Ed and Pa still have problems discussing the details, as they still think that some sort of trick was played on them, but as I was there I can convey that indeed the pancakes flew off the platters, careened out the door, and headed east. A strange leak about the size of a football was noted later in the day at the water tower up on the ridge. Bill Grindal noted that he thought he saw some sort of object flying overhead, but he figured it was some sort of experimental jet as Oak Ridge National Labs wasn't too terribly far away. Miss Lula was a little more than perturbed that her laundry was spotted with small dabs of syrup, and later had to apologize to Riley next door for blaming it on his two grandsons.

Flying pancakes haven't been seen since in Hieskell, and for sure Bauton now thinks that the old way of making pancakes is the best way. Stories of flying saucers in magazines at newsstands is news to others. We just happen to know better.