At some point, cooking buttermilk pancakes became easy that a clock ticks in my head and I would know when to flip it when I’m away squeezing in chores on Saturday mornings. It’s standard practice: let a pat of butter sizzle on high heat, pour in 1/3 cup of batter in medium heat, flip it after three minutes, done. Each pancake would have a bronzed crust of crunch and a soft pillowy interior, its skin tan, taut and smooth that would easily give in to forks and knives and sop up butter and maple syrup. That routine changed today when a mid-sized kitten, not quite young to be clueless and not quite old to jump off the roof, started to incessantly meow for food. I had to get a chair, stand on my tiptoes and towards the edge of the roof’s gutter with an old Quaker Oats canister filled with dry cat kibbles – a vestige of cats that came and gone – I was able to have the cat put its head inside to reach for food. It was very hungry; I had to do this stunt four times, and for each time I had to go back and flip a pancake in the kitchen or stack each on a nearby plate. Oddly, I find it a sight to behold: past the high clothespins of our laundry area was the roof; on it the cat’s head, its small tongue slightly gaping from its mouth out of craving; in the background the bamboo leaves swaying; in the distance were birds flying like stunt planes, circling and diving and relishing the cool, windy day. All this against the wispy clouds of January.