Chapter 109: A recipe for disaster

Chapter 109 — A Recipe for Disaster

"It’s flour, eggs, and milk," Roxanne said.

"Those are ingredients," Tessa replied. "Not a plan."

The recipe book lay open on Roxanne’s bed, its cracked spine propped against a pillow. Isla had found the pancake page within seconds, and now all three of them were bent over it, squinting at her father’s handwriting. Half the measurements had been crossed out and rewritten. One line simply said, in a dramatic slant, *add enough milk*.

"Enough," Tessa repeated. "Enough for what? A pancake? A lake?"

"He knew what he meant."

"He may have been the only one."

Isla was already tying an apron around her waist, which she had apparently been hiding somewhere in her wardrobe for exactly this kind of occasion. "We’re making memories."

"That’s what people say right before something catches fire," said Tessa.

"Nothing will catch fire."

"Your confidence frightens me."

Roxanne closed the book gently and tucked it under her arm. She had spent the whole of Sunday with her mind turning over family and letters and long silences, and she wanted, very badly, to do something with her hands that did not matter. "Student kitchen is open until nine. If we hurry, we can have the place to ourselves."

"We’re going to be wonderful," Isla said.

Tessa sighed, picked up a measuring jug, and followed them out.

The student kitchen was a long, stone-floored room that smelled of old toast, and for the first twenty minutes it belonged entirely to them. Isla claimed the mixing bowl and a wooden spoon with the air of a queen taking a throne. Tessa lined up the flour, eggs, and milk and began weighing each one on a small brass scale, murmuring numbers. Roxanne stood between them with the book open on the counter, reading her father’s instructions aloud.

"Two cups of flour. Maybe three. Eggs, until it looks right."

"Until it looks right?" Tessa said faintly.

"He’s very trusting of the cook."

The first batch came out thick as porridge. It sat in the pan like a small, stubborn hill, and when Roxanne pressed it with the spatula, it refused to spread.

"It’s rustic," Isla said.

"It’s cement."

The second batch was thinner and promptly welded itself to the pan. Roxanne scraped at it for a full minute before it came away in grey, tragic flakes. The third batch looked promising for several seconds, then folded over itself in the middle like a collapsing tent.

"Let me do it," Isla said, taking the pan. "I’ve seen it done. You flick your wrist, and the pancake flies up and turns over, and everyone cheers."

"Have you ever done it?"

"No, but I believe in myself."

She flicked her wrist. The pancake rose into the air, turned a graceful half circle, and landed on the counter with a wet slap, a full arm’s length from the pan. It lay there, steaming slightly.

Nobody spoke. Then Tessa made a small, strangled noise, and Roxanne put a hand over her mouth, and all three of them dissolved at once. Isla clung to the counter. Tessa wiped her eyes with a floury knuckle. Roxanne laughed until she had to bend over, until her ribs ached and her breath came in gasps, and the whole kitchen rang with it.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Is everything all right in there?" called a muffled voice. "Someone said they heard screaming."

"We’re fine!" Isla managed. "Just cooking!"

"Right," said the voice, doubtfully, and its footsteps retreated.

They had barely recovered when the door swung open again, and Liam leaned in with his nose lifted like a hound’s.

"I smelled burning from the east corridor," he announced. "I came to prevent a culinary emergency."

"You came for free food," Roxanne said.

"I’m deeply offended." He stepped inside and surveyed the wreckage, the scorched pan, the flour dusting every surface, the pancake still lying where Isla had abandoned it. "Although I see my timing is excellent. This is a tragedy. You need expert guidance."

"You can’t cook," said Tessa.

"I can do many things. Cooking is one of the things I haven’t tried. But I have excellent instincts." He pushed up his sleeves and took the spatula from Roxanne’s hand. "The secret is confidence. You want to look at the pancake as though it has already succeeded."

He poured a perfectly respectable round of batter, watched it for a moment, then prodded it with the spatula, tore it neatly in half, and held up the two sad pieces. "It was ready."

"It was not ready," said Tessa.

"It was thinking about being ready."

"Clean the counter," Tessa said, handing him a cloth.

"I am a guest."

"You’re a menace."

"Official pancake flipper," Isla decided, pointing at him with the wooden spoon. "That’s your role. Roxanne mixes, Tessa measures, I supervise, you flip."

"A position of great responsibility." Liam straightened and saluted. From then on he took the job with ridiculous gravity, holding the pan at a careful angle, staring at each pancake as if it were a delicate piece of diplomacy.

Roxanne laughed so much her stomach hurt. She hadn’t expected it. She had come into the kitchen carrying so much that was heavy, and somewhere between the cement and the airborne pancake, it had all become light.

At some point Liam’s eyes fell on the recipe book, open on the counter, the stained cover and the cramped, crossed-out lines. He studied it for a moment, then looked at her.

"Was this your father’s?"

"Yes."

He didn’t go solemn. He didn’t ask what had happened to him, or whether she was all right. He only turned back to the pan and said, "Then we should make it properly. We can’t have him blamed for our terrible cooking."

Roxanne looked at the back of his head. Something warm and unguarded moved in her chest. "Agreed," she said.

It was Roxanne who noticed the problem, in the end. She stood over the bowl with a fork, watching the batter drag off the tines in thick ribbons, and thought about the note in the margin of the book. *Too flat. Try more eggs.* Her father had been hunting for flat all along, and everything they had made was far too thick.

"It needs more milk," she said. "Much more than the recipe says."

"The recipe says enough milk," said Tessa.

"Then he didn’t have enough. Not by a lot."

She poured, whisked, and watched the batter loosen and run smooth. Liam heated the pan, and she ladled out a circle, and the whole room watched it bubble and set. When the edges turned gold, Liam slid the spatula under it, held his breath, and flipped.

It landed perfectly.

Isla shrieked as though they had won a championship. She threw her arms around Tessa, who put up with it for several seconds, then around Roxanne, and then, after a brief pause, around Liam, who accepted it with great dignity.

"It’s golden," Isla said. "Roxanne, it’s golden!"

Liam took a bite of the first pancake. He chewed thoughtfully for a long moment, his expression grave.

"Acceptable," he announced.

He quietly reached for another.

"Excuse me," said Tessa. "Ten minutes ago you called the earlier batch inedible."

"The earlier batch was inedible."

"You ate half of it."

"For scientific purposes."

Roxanne picked up the last pancake from the plate and looked at it. It was thin and golden and a little uneven at the edge. She thought of the man who had written *burnt AGAIN* in the margin and gone on trying anyway. She did not say any of it aloud. She tore off a piece and ate it, and it tasted like warm butter and a little like smoke, and it was very good.

The door opened again. Roshan stood on the threshold with a book in his hand and a look of polite horror.

"I came to return this to Liam," he said. "I wasn’t expecting a battlefield."

"Culinary progress," said Liam.

Behind him came Lucien, holding a folded message. "The kitchen supervisor has reported an unexpected mess," he said, and then he saw the room, the flour on the ceiling, the pan in the sink, the smear of batter on Tessa’s cheek, and shut his eyes briefly. "Of course."

Kai arrived last, drawn by the noise, and was handed a plate by Isla before he could say a word. He looked at it. He looked at Roxanne. "Is this safe?"

"It’s excellent," she said.

He took a bite and gave a small, grave nod. "Yes."

"Everything gets cleaned before anyone leaves," Lucien said, rolling up his sleeves. "Everything."

"But the pancake-making was a cultural contribution to academy life," Liam protested.

"You contributed mostly smoke," Roxanne said.

"Smoke is atmosphere."

"Scrub," said Lucien.

They scrubbed. Roshan dried the dishes, Kai wiped down the cupboards, and Lucien directed operations from the centre of the room with the weary patience of a man who had done this before. The kitchen slowly returned to its stone-floored self. It was an ordinary evening, flour and laughter and aching arms, and Roxanne held on to every minute of it.

Later, alone in her room, she opened the recipe book on her desk and found a pen. Beside her father’s pancake page she wrote in small, careful letters: *More milk. Much more. About double what he says. Golden at last.* Below it she added: *Liam’s flipping technique: catastrophic.*

Isla read it over her shoulder, her hair still dusted with flour. "Are you going to keep updating it?"

"Maybe. I might try another recipe someday."

"Not tonight."

"Not tonight," Roxanne agreed.

Before bed she took a photograph of the last pancake, golden on its plate, and sent it to Margaret. *The recipe has survived its first modern test.*

The reply came within minutes. *Your father once burnt pancakes for an entire family breakfast. Nobody had the heart to tell him. We ate them anyway.*

Roxanne laughed out loud in the quiet room.

The following morning, she opened the recipe book to check the milk amount once more and stopped. Beneath her notes, in a lopsided, confident hand, someone had added a line.

*Officially approved by the Moonstone culinary department. Further testing required.*

She rolled her eyes, found her pen, and wrote underneath it:

*Department closed until further notice.*