Page 46 of Cinder
He huffs and shifts closer anyway as I pull the flour out and start mixing the batter.
Two cups of flour and two tablespoons of sugar. I level the knife across the top of the measuring cup twice, add the baking powder, and a pinch of salt. Then I crack the eggs cleanly into the bowl and pour the milk in a steady stream, whisking until the lumps smooth out.
I’ve made pancakes almost every Sunday since Elle was old enough to hold a fork, so I don’t have to think about it.
Today, I’m thinking about it.
The pan heats on the stove, butter melting into a thin sheen that coats the surface. I pour the first round of batter into even circles, watching the edges turn from shiny to matte.
Behind me, Elle’s footsteps come pounding back down the hall.
“I brushed for the whole song!” she announces, climbing into her chair at the counter and peering over. “Can we put blueberries in them?”
“On top,” I say.
“Inside them is better.”
“On top is easier.”
She considers this for a moment as I flip the first pancake.
I’ve left it too long. The underside is darker than I like, edging toward burnt. I slide it onto the plate anyway and start the next batch. Elle leans over to inspect it.
“That one’s brown.”
“They’re supposed to be brown.”
She accepts that, but keeps watching as I pour the next round, adjusting the heat down a notch.
“You’re making them careful today,” she says.
“I always make them careful, bug.”
She tilts her head. “You’re making them extra careful.”
I don’t answer that.
Gus noses my calf, and I shift automatically so I don’t step on him. The kitchen smells like butter and coffee and something just slightly too overcooked. Definitely not burnt.
I glance toward the living room without meaning to. The straightened cushions and the blankets folded over the arm of the couch. Elle’s penguin books are stacked neatly on the coffee table.
Did I vacuum yesterday? I think I vacuumed yesterday. I definitely thought about vacuuming yesterday, at least.
Turning back to the stove, I flip the second batch at exactly the right moment.
Golden.
Elle nods approvingly. “That’s better.”
“I know how to cook,” I mutter.
She grins and reaches for a blueberry from the bowl, popping it into her mouth as she keeps watching. I stack the second round of pancakes carefully as steam rises between them and wipe a smear of batter off the counter with the side of my hand.
It’s just breakfast. Just fucking pancakes.
So I don’t know why I keep checking the clock.
7:12.
