Pancake Day

12th February 2013

We sit side by side at his desk. I call out the account numbers, the sort codes. My husband logs on to the websites and tries to transfer the money, cancel the accounts or make them into joint accounts. We opened two of them at least twenty five years ago. It’s complicated. In the end we phone the banks. I’ve asked him to do this to make our money easier for me. For when I’ll need to do it alone.

He’s very quiet, depressed, while we eat our veggie lentil soup. Remembering the different financial life he had. I’m just so grateful to him that there is any money at all now.

I promised pancakes for pudding. I read out the ingredients from Delia’s recipe and he weighs and measures, sifts flour, whisks in the eggs and then the milk.

I say, 

“Bring the measuring jug.”

He hesitates and picks up a white plastic bowl. Then the jug when I point to it.

We take it in turns to pour thin batter into the pan and turn the lacy disc over with palette knife and fingers. No fancy flipping and missing.  Just delicate long parcels wrapped round a sticky fan of lemon juice and lavender honey.

I want the pancakes to cheer him up but I don’t think they do.

Much later, while he is moulding clay on Dartmoor, I go to a drinks party at the lovely home of dear friends where I sample warm panckes rolled round a compote of deep red forest fruits, sliced bananas and a cloud of natural yogurt.

It’s a lovely party -  buzzy and warm and friendly - and I find myself paralysed with self loathing, feeling dull and plain, unworldly and inadequate..... in the company of the people I love. Which makes no sense at all.....