Pancakes in the Apocalypse

A teaspoon of baking powder.

The pandemic is old news, going on months, a thousand people dying each day but, like, the new normal, you know?

The milk is amazing. Fresh from the cows in the dairy building, a squat rectangle of concrete blocks assembled in this isolated valley 100 years ago by capable, enterprising hands, troweling thin cakes of mortar between courses.

Add a little citrus to make buttermilk.

The power went out in the middle of the night, with a sudden wink, like it remembered it had to be somewhere else.

Some yoghurt and some sourdough discard add flavor.

It’s the time of the year when winds blow dry and wild, but this is different. Sustained gusts, I guess it’s called, moving across the land as fast a car on a highway. As fast as a thousand cars on a road the width of the valley. The side of the house bulwarked against the wind is covered in branches, boxes, torn scraps of messages that were once important to someone. All of the things adapted, by design or by accident, to pick up and go whenever the wind moves.

A little more butter than is really wise. Why not treat ourselves? Besides, when you don’t have a non-stick pan, a non-stick pancake can keep things tidy.

What won’t stay collected against the house is the smoke. It gets through any crack. It goes around corners. It permeates. But this half of the country has been on fire for weeks, so it’s really no surprise. The mountains are less than a mile away, but can’t be seen. There’s a perfectly horizontal line where the alfalfa field to the north just cuts off into a hazy wall. Glitchy television static shoots right up to heaven from the edge of a newly flat earth.

There’s propane still, so light the stove with a match and wait for bubbles to form on the top of the pancake.

You’d think we’re in the perfect spot to ride this out. An oasis. There’s water from a creek. Livestock. The garden. Not too many of us to feed and care for. Almost nobody knows we’re here. Still, it’s hard to agree on the ground rules for perpetual disaster. Do we allow someone to go to town for supplies? What do we suspect about them on their return? And, like I said, the power is out now.

There’s mold on the strawberries, but if you cut it away, there’s enough left to put on top of a thin, golden pancake.

Delicious!