“You made these way too thick! They need to be thin enough that you can read the newspaper through it!”  Is exactly what I heard every weekend I stayed at my dad’s house and I’d make us German pancakes in the morning.  I’d always respond with something along the lines of “If you don’t like it don’t eat it.” Or “If they’re s0 bad then make them yourself!” He would come back with something like, “They’re fine I guess.” Or “I’ll eat them this time, but don’t let it happen again.” We would always make German pancakes, if you’ve never had them they are very similar to a crepe. No matter how many times I’ve ruined them he still allowed me to make them.  It became sort of a thing with us, I’d make them wrong but he still would eat every single one I made for him.  Every morning I’d wake up and walk downstairs to the kitchen and he’d have all the ingredients sitting out waiting for me.  Sometimes, I think he’d just have me make them because he was too lazy to do it himself.  This was the way we bonded. Every Saturday morning, yelling over pancakes.  It’s how we told each other we loved one another.