*
The next morning, Wednesday, I woke up late with that sense that I had forgotten something. My eyes were scratchy. I got dressed quickly in the same yoga pants and AAPD sweatshirt and opened my door. A glance down the hall told me that Seth was already awake. It was almost a miracle that he was up before I was. Then I smelled bacon. And sugar. I heard Alex’s voice from the kitchen and remembered. Seth had begged Alex for his chocolate chip pancakes and Alex had offered to teach Seth how to make them. The proposal was met with a lukewarm reception, but Seth finally agreed. Tom had angled an invitation as well. I told Alex I wasn’t sure Seth knew how to cook anything and maybe they should start with boiled eggs, but Alex had that gleam of determination in his eye so I’d left them to make their plans. But after a largely sleepless night I wasn’t in the mood for Cooking 101 in my kitchen. I felt a dark storm cloud gather over my head. I took a deep breath and stomped down the stairs.
There was clanging and banging, some singing, and it sounded like Seth had hooked his speakers up to his iPod for musical inspiration. My spirits lifted as I entered the kitchen and smelled coffee. They plummeted again when I saw the pot was empty. Flour coated the countertop, a carton of eggs sat on the table near a set of mixing bowls covered in batter, and Seth stood at the stove, spatula in hand. Realizing that almost every pan and utensil was in use, I hoped they’d made a pact to clean up after they were done. It looked like I’d missed the mixing part, but the flipping-the-pancake lesson was just beginning. Tom was again studying the accident report, as if multiple reads would change the contents. I grunted at them all, then mouthed a surprised thank-you to Alex when he shoved a mug of coffee into my hand and ushered me out of the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later Seth announced that breakfast was served. They had set up the plates in the dining room—apparently this was an event.
I sat in front of my plate and inhaled the buttery sweet aroma of syrup drizzled over pancakes. They were crisp on the outside, while the inside melted into sugary heaven. Seth watched me and then tried his own. His face lit up with the thrill of a job well done.
“These are awesome!” he said.
“It’s the secret ingredient,” Alex said, and held his fist out for Seth to bump.
After a few more minutes of exclaiming over the pancakes and congratulating Seth, I turned to Tom. “Have you heard anything more about the oil and the bread?”
Tom shook his head.
“What oil?” Alex asked.
Tom explained about the peanut oil on the bread and how anyone could have done it.
“It would have to be pretty fancy peanut oil,” Alex said.
“What do you mean?” I turned to Alex.
“Most peanut oil is safe for people with allergies. The processing destroys the protein that causes the reaction. A lot of people still avoid any peanut products to be safe, but only some of the gourmet oils that still have a peanut taste and smell and are processed differently are supposed to be actually dangerous.”
“How do you know all that?” Tom asked.
“I have to stay up on food-allergy issues to run a safe kitchen.”
“So, this isn’t regular grocery store oil?” I asked.
Alex shook his head. “No, more the kind of thing you’d get in a specialty store or online. Also, there isn’t any smell or taste to regular peanut oil, but the fancy stuff does retain more peanut-y flavor.”
“Thanks, Alex,” Tom said. “I’m not sure Mac and Charla know about this. It might be useful.”
“Glad to help,” Alex said and loaded up his plate again.
More coffee, incredible pancakes, and an entertaining rehash of the cooking lesson allowed me to shrug off my concerns of the night before. We were laughing and arguing over the last pancake when I noticed the smell. Something was burning. Just then a shrill noise shrieked in our ears.
“What is that?” I shouted, with hands to the side of my head.
“It must be the new smoke detectors your dad put in,” Alex yelled back.
We all jumped up and ran to the kitchen to see what was burning. The stove had been left on with three more pancakes in the pan; they were black and smoking, filling the room with an acrid stench. I opened a window and fanned the smoke outside. Seth grabbed a broom and poked at the smoke detector to get it to stop.
For safety, my father had hooked all the detectors together somehow, so they all started alarming. I thought I heard the phone ringing but couldn’t tell over all the noise. Alex had turned the stove off and I was considering how best to deal with the pan—and the flames beginning to reach upward—when Tom shouted.