Marla stood at her stove, spatula in hand, staring at a blackened pancake that looked like a charred spaceship. The recipe had promised ‘golden brown perfection,’ but her pan was more of a crime scene. She muttered, ‘I just wanted pancakes, not a nuclear meltdown.’
The coffee maker gurgled like a disgruntled python, spewing grounds into the sink. Marla yanked the plug, sending a splash of bitter liquid onto her vintage apron. ‘This is why I never trust appliances,’ she said to her cat, Socks, who watched from the counter, unimpressed.
She tried again, flipping the pancake with the confidence of a skydiver. It stuck. She scraped it off, revealing a hockey-puck texture. ‘Okay, new plan,’ she said, dumping the batter into a bowl. The mixer whirred, then died with a sputter. ‘You too?’ she asked, glaring at the appliance. ‘I’m not a fan of your vibe either.’
By now, the apartment smelled like burnt sugar and regret. Marla surrendered, slathering peanut butter on the pancake and devouring it with a fork. Socks leapt onto the table, pawing at the mess. ‘Not for you,’ she said, but the cat snatched a crumb and vanished into the hallway.
The doorbell rang. Marla opened it to her neighbor, Mrs. Pritchett, holding a casserole. ‘I heard noises,’ she said, eyeing the kitchen. ‘Everything’s fine,’ Marla lied, wiping flour off her face. ‘Just… breakfast.’
Mrs. Pritchett nodded, unimpressed. ‘Next time, try the toaster.’
Marla closed the door, stared at the chaos, and laughed. At least the cat was full.’,
