She stood in the middle of the room for some time, not quite knowing where to begin. While making pancakes had seemed a good idea while lying in bed, it struck her now that she really did not know how to cook. Of course she had observed it being done countless times while sitting at the kitchen table. When she was a child, she fondly recalled waiting impatiently for the first taste of the wafer thin, sweet pancakes that Hill produced for their breakfast on Sundays, and she had been allowed to mix the various batters and lick the spoon when it was something tasty, but that had been the extent of her experience.

She remembered her mother often looking at cookbooks when she planned a menu for a special occasion. One Mrs. Bennet always perused, among others, was titled The Experienced Housekeeper, by an Elizabeth Raffald. Lizzy particularly remembered it because the author had had the same first name as herself. Glancing around for a shelf that might contain a cookbook, she finally resorted to opening every cupboard in her search, but found to her slight dismay, that there were none to be found in that kitchen. That was hardly surprising, since the previous owner would have likely taken all of his belonging away with him, if his staff had even had them to begin with.

Hardly daunted by this lack of instructions, and more determined than ever to accomplish her goal, Lizzy began getting out pans, bowls, and spoons in preparation for the next step.

She then racked her brain for the ingredients that she remembered being used, saying them aloud while she simultaneously rummaged the kitchen for the needed items.

“There had been milk, or was it water? Maybe it was cream? Eggs! Certainly there had been eggs. Yes, and flour. Where is the flour?” she muttered. “Oh, this looks like it. And some kind of spice... Where are you, spices? Why, in the spice cupboard of course!”

She stuck her nose into each drawer, trying to find the one that smelled like what she remembered tasting, but the strong scents only confused her nose as much as her mind, and finally made her sneeze several times in quick succession.

“This will not do at all. I cannot just put any old thing in it, or it will spoil them.”

However, after much more mumbling, and some tasting, she finally found what she thought to be the right thing.

“Nutmeg. Well, even if it is not correct it will not be a bad addition. It tastes good enough.”

Going back to the table she stared at the bowls and her gathered ingredients, almost willing them to combine themselves in the proper proportions as if by magic. Yet she had not been daunted before, so she would not let her lack of knowledge stop her now. Picking up an egg, she hit it lightly on the tabletop with no results. The egg remained in its case. So she cracked it hard against the side of the bowl, only to feel its slimy insides all over her hand.

“Who would have thought there would be a special skill to breaking an egg,” she mused, while wiping the residue from between her fingers.

Picking up another, this time she cracked it a bit more softly on the inside wall of the bowl and then spent a few moments picking out the shells that had somehow ended up in there with the rest of the egg.

“One should do it! I cannot imagine it taking more than that. Now for the liquid.”

She looked curiously at the three pitchers she had lined up on the table.

“Which of you wants to help me turn this egg into the most delicious pancakes my husband has ever put into his mouth?” she asked them in a mock serious tone. “No one willing to step up? I see. You are all cowards!”

Moving her hand in a circle above them, she began counting and stopped her motion on the number ten. Her hand now rested between the water and the milk.

“So you would both like to go into the mix? Then you shall have your way,” she laughed, pouring liberal amount of each into the bowl.

Adding a few pinches of nutmeg next, she thought it looked like not enough and so added half of what was in the drawer, which was an amount about the size of her fist.

Remembering that she had not gotten any sugar out, she ran to get the loaf and found a knife to scrape it with. Bringing it back to the table, she worked at getting the amount she thought she would need and scraped the majority into her hands and then tossed it into the bowl, saving the rest for the top of the cooked ones.