Carpe Tenebras: III

Jo’s sister Vicky made her entrance. Her eyes glanced at the sack of buttermilk pancake mix before she started to whine.

“You know, that’s my favorite pancake mix,” she stated, trying to sound superior. Vicky was in special ed., a product of a mother on drugs during pregnancy. Mrs. Pidgeon and her husband had adopted both Jo and Vicky, who had the same mother. While Jo had escaped her mother unscathed, Vicky was not as lucky as her older sister. She’d been cursed with a disability that left her mind a few years behind her body and gave her behavioral issues. The Pidgeons dealt the best they could under the circumstances, although there was tension more often than not in the house.

“Yeah, whatever,” Jo replied, “We’re eating them, mom said we could.” Somewhat defeated, Vicky lazed off into the living room. As I placed myself on a stool at the island, Jo whispered harshly, “She never eats these pancakes! She’s just saying that; she’s soo annoying.” Amanda and I shrugged, thankful for our own sister-less environments; Amanda had a brother but I had no siblings. I glanced over to the stove where the griddle was heating up. Smoke began to waft from the corners, filling the air with a rancid perfume.

“Uhh… Jo? You might want to turn the burners off until we’re ready,” I said, wide-eyed. She followed my gaze and turned to face the cooking machinery herself. Racing over to the old, coiled stove, she turned off the burners with a flick of her wrist, fingers grasping the knobs. Jo reached for a kitchen mitt and tried to relocate the griddle to the other half of the stove. I watched her struggle with amusement before I got up and decided to help her.

“I don’t want to burn the mitt!” she said. I easily grasped a corner of the cast iron and lifted it over to the other burners.

“See? Easy,” I grinned. Jo huffed off to a cabinet to grab a mixing bowl and measuring cup. We all gathered around the island and stared at the bag of buttermilk pancake mix. It looked like a wild cat had been let loose on it, under the impression that it was a small bird or something.

“What…” I started.

“Amanda tried to rip it open,” Jo interrupted with irritation. Amanda handed a roll of duct tape over the Jo, who ripped off a piece and gave it to Amanda. Amanda carefully positioned the tape on the inside of the bag over one of the two major tears.

“Why are you putting it on the inside?” Jo asked. Since Amanda’s tongue was hanging out of her mouth in concentration, I offered up my hypothesis.

“If she put it on the outside, the mix might stick to the tape if it wasn’t positioned exactly. This way, no stick, no loss of flour.” Amanda nodded her head in agreement. Jo shrugged, then sighed, ripping off one more piece of tape. Amanda finished bandaging the wounded paper bag and Jo took over.

“Alright, we need a cup of flour for every cup of water. How many pancakes are we going to eat?” Amanda grabbed for the bag and stole it away from Jo. She searched the text on the outside but looked confused.

“Normally, it would say the yield or amount of pancakes it makes. I can’t find that anywhere.”

“Why don’t we just make a cup’s worth of pancakes and go from there?” My idea seemed to please them both. We concocted a smooth batter from the mix and water then began to warm up the griddle again.