Rule #301: The First Pancake Rule
I love pancakes.
Like bacon, pancakes are proof that God exists — and that He loves us. I’m absolutely certain that, in whatever form heaven exists, they regularly serve pancakes and bacon.
What makes pancakes so special isn’t just that they’re delicious comfort food. Embedded in their existence are life lessons. Lessons like, “A little syrup can make even a burnt pancake taste good,” and “Moderation in all things… except pancakes.” But my personal favorite? The first pancake is rarely the best.
There’s this expectation that if you prepare correctly — following Paula Deen’s recipe to the letter, buying the finest ingredients, and using top-tier cooking gear — then the outcome will be perfect. That each and every pancake will come out golden brown and delicious.
But pancakes remind us that the world is an uncertain place. Small, seemingly insignificant changes — skillet temperature, milk fat percentage, even the humidity — can completely change the outcome. More often than not, that first pancake in the batch — the one you’ve been dreaming about since waking up — ends up misshapen, undercooked, or burned.
The art of making pancakes, like all worthwhile things in life, is not an exact science. It’s messy. It’s unpredictable. It’s personal. It requires attention, finesse, and a little love. And that’s exactly what gives pancakes the power to comfort us.
Realizing and accepting this chaos — the fact that we rarely nail it on the first try — is part of what makes the experience meaningful. Failure is baked into the batter, and that’s okay. It’s essential, even.
Whether it’s your first job, your first presentation, your first test, or your first love, rarely are firsts perfect pancakes. Embracing the failure that comes with the uncertainty of every first attempt is the magic of long-term success. You have to be the runner who trips at the starting line, brushes off the dirt with a swagger of persistence, and starts running again. Accepting failure as part of the process is what makes the second pancake taste so good.
Psychologist Anders Ericsson once introduced the 10,000 Hour Rule: to become world-class at anything, you need to devote at least 10,000 hours of deliberate practice. What that really means is: 10,000 hours of failing. 10,000 hours of disappointing pancakes.
I encourage you to stop by your local Waffle House on a busy Sunday morning and just watch. Don’t eat yet — just watch. It’s not cooking — it’s conducting. A symphony of breakfast. Each team member plays their part — eggs, hash browns, waffles, pancakes — every movement fluid, every note in sync. They’ve put in the hours. They’ve burned their share of pancakes. What you’re witnessing is what mastery looks like.
When I sit at the counter and watch that symphony unfold, I always tip well. I clap quietly to myself. Because I know I’m seeing something uniquely human — a kind of greatness born only of effort. And in that effort, I see something sacred. A little piece of God.
I worry about my kids sometimes — about how discouraged they might feel when they see their own first pancakes flop. I watch Abby graduate from college, excited to make her first pancake in the business world — only to find the skillet too hot, the batter too thin. But she keeps showing up. Keeps flipping. And each pancake looks a little better than the last. They’re still first pancakes in many ways, but she flips with the determination of a great chef who knows the perfect pancake is out there — and that it just takes one more try.
I had over 500 interviews before I landed my first “big-boy” job. Pancake after pancake, and no one wanted a bite. But looking back, after all the success I’ve had, it’s easy to forget those first 10,000 hours of failure. All of it — the doubt, the frustration, the mess — was necessary.
Greatness takes time. A lot of disappointing first pancakes. But nothing tastes as good as that first perfect one, when it finally arrives.
Love,
Dad