He sighs wearily. ‘If you really want to go home, I’ll ask Dad to drive you to the station. Stay for breakfast at least. I’m making my famous birthday pancakes.’
Shit, I forgot. ‘Happy birthday,’ I squeak guiltily. ‘You shouldn’t have to cook, though.’
‘Speaking of reality, Holly, this is mine. When you’re a chef, you cook—even when it’s your birthday.’
Touché. I didn’t really think of it like that. I guess he doesn’t have the luxury of someone cooking him a meal. Everyone’s always enjoying the fruits of his labour because he’s so good at it.
‘I’ll make them,’ I say quickly.
‘You don’t have to.’
‘No, I want to. To say thanks for having me.’Before I leave in a cloud of dust without looking back.
Full of purpose, I pad downstairs and flick on the lights. It’s so early no one else is up yet. I bring up some recipe options on my phone, looking for something with a bit of pizzazz. Not that I’m trying to impress Bailey with my cooking skills, of course. I’ve neglected to tell him I’ve never cooked pancakes before, but how hard can it be? I google ‘fancy breakfast pancakes’, and photos of pancake animals appear. There’s an owl, a lion, a teddy bear, and a reindeer. He wouldlovethat! It seems quite easy—just make different-sized pancake rounds for the heads and ears and decorate them with fruit. Easy-peasy.
First, ingredients: flour, milk, salt, sugar, baking powder, eggs, butter. Check.
Second, fruit for decorations: bananas, apples, raspberries, and there’s even chocolate buttons. Check.
Hmm, there are quite a lot of people to cook for, so I probably need to double or triple the basic recipe I’ve found.
Donning my candy cane apron, I eye the Aga. Luckily, it’s a gas cooker, so it should be pretty easy to fire up. This really cannot go wrong.
Right, the batter is mixed. There seems to be an awful lot of it. How many pancakes is this going to make? I brush aside my sudden doubt. They’ll be so delicious everyone will have second helpings.
I chuck a knob of butter in a cast-iron frying pan, and it melts. All that’s left to do is to pour in some batter, wait for it to cook, and flip the pancake. My first attempt is half-baked mush that breaks into pieces. That hurriedly gets put in the bin. Maybe I should turn the heat up? Butter is now sizzling. Pour, wait, and flip. But I wait too long, and its bottom is burnt. Gosh, this Aga doesn’t have any middle ground. This is going to be tricky. That one goes in the bin too.
I google ‘how to fix your pancake problem’. Luckily, there’s an in-depth article on it. The article suggests adding more flour and waiting for bubbles to appear before flipping. This time, I get it right. The perfect pancake! Phew.
Each animal has, on average, four different-sized pancakes. So if there’s seventeen people (not counting baby Eve), I just have to do sixty-seven more. I wipe my damp brow with my hand, feeling slightly panicked. It’s too late now. I’m committed.
Who knew pancakes would be so bloody difficult? This bitch of an Aga isn’t my friend, and I’m sweating madly from the heat and the exertion of trying to flip pancakes with ease and agility. I assumed the more pancakes I made, the better I would get. But that isn’t the case. I’ve used nearly a whole pat of butter to grease the pan, and there are more pancakes in the bin than on the plate. Dollops of pancake batter are all over the Aga. I need to clean that up before it bakes hard.
I’m on the verge of giving up when the door opens, and in comes Bailey. He’s still wearing his blue gingerbread T-shirt, but he’s pulled on a pair of grey jogging bottoms. The front lock of his hair sticks up adorably like Tintin’s.
‘Whoa,’ he says, surveying the state of the Aga.
‘I’m going to clean it up,’ I say tearfully.
He comes over and gently steers me towards the kitchen table. ‘You’ve done really well so far. Maybe have a seat for a bit.’
‘But I’m supposed to be making them for you.’ I show him the photo on my phone.
‘Cute idea. I’m just going toassista little.’
‘Well, OK,’ I say.Thank God he’s taking over.
‘Why don’t you chop the fruit?’
I halve an apple and watch as he checks the consistency of the batter.
‘This is good,’ he says. Hah, I knew I was doing something right.
He adjusts the temperature of the Aga and pours in some batter, tilts the pan to spread the batter evenly, and then expertly flips them. Soon, there’s a mound of fluffy golden pancakes on the plate, covering my pitiful attempts.
‘You need smaller ones for the eyes and mouths,’ I tell him, busily slicing bananas.
Bailey obediently cooks a bunch of smaller ones.
