Essentialism

Harish woke before the street cleaners and laid out flour, eggs, and the blue bowl he had bought because it was almost the colour of the old one. He had not made pancakes in years. On Sundays, his wife used to say they were too thin, then eat the first three while standing at the stove.

The hob clicked without lighting.

He tried again, holding the knob down until his thumb hurt. Nothing. The kettle would not start either. On the counter, the batter sat in its bowl, freckled with cardamom.

There was a notice under the door: Gas works. Back by four, perhaps.

Harish read it twice. At ten he took the small camping stove from the cupboard above the fridge, where he kept it for power cuts and never used it. The pan sat badly on its thin arms. The first pancake spread past the edge and slid into the flame. He caught the handle with a tea towel and knocked the blue bowl onto the floor. The batter ran beneath the radiator.

“Everything all right?” called Mina from the next flat.

“Completely,” Harish said, crouched with a spoon.

She appeared in the doorway holding an empty mug. When she saw the stove, she put the mug down. “Mine is electric.”

“I know,” he said.

“It is still there, last time I checked.”

He carried the eggs and flour across in a shopping bag. Mina found a larger pan. Harish made the batter too thick, then too thin. The first pancake in her kitchen came out black at one edge and pale at the other.

Mina cut it in half, buttered both pieces, and ate hers leaning against the sink.

“Too thin,” she said.

Harish scraped the next one onto a plate before it could tear. Outside, the street cleaners had reached the corner. He turned the heat down, though Mina’s hob was already lower than he thought.