The Pancake Whisk

"I'll make the pancakes all by myself," said Isla.

She stood in the middle of Grandma's kitchen in her socks. The floor was cool. The kettle ticked on the stove. Grandma was out in the garden hanging up the washing, and the pancakes were a surprise.

Isla had the big bowl. She had the flour, the eggs and the milk. But she did not have the whisk.

She looked in the drawer. There were spoons, string and a lemon squeezer. No whisk.

She climbed on the step stool and looked on the high shelf. There were teacups and a dusty jelly mould. No whisk.

Then she looked at the big cupboard by the stove. Maybe the whisk was in there. But a huge iron pot sat in front of the door.

Isla pushed. "Oof!" The pot did not move. She pushed with her back. "Ooof!" It still did not move. The pot was much too heavy for one small girl.

Isla sat down on the floor. Her tummy felt wobbly. Then she remembered the bread bin.

Everyone knew about the bread bin. It said back whatever had been said in the kitchen an hour before. Grandma said that was just the way of bread bins.

Isla put her ear against the lid. "Bread bin, bread bin, what did you hear?"

The bin gave a little cough. Then out came Grandma's voice, crackly and far away. "Now, where did I put that whisk? Oh yes. In the blue jug by the window, with the daisies, to keep it dry."

Then the bin said, "Hum-de-hum-de-hum." And then it gave a very loud hiccup.

Isla laughed so hard she fell over.

She ran to the window. In the blue jug, among the daisies, stood the whisk.

Isla pulled it out and wiped it on her sleeve. She cracked the eggs, poured the milk and whisked and whisked. The batter went round and round, pale yellow, like a little sun.

Outside, Grandma's boots came tap-tap up the path. In the pan, the first pancake began to sizzle.