Ezekiel 16: 2-52 meets “The Fisherman’s Wife” for weird children and adults who like fractured fairy tales.
Once upon a time, there was a husband and a wife. They were very poor—so poor, in fact, that they were in danger of starving. Every day, they had less food in their pantry until one day, they had just enough flour left to make a single pancake.
“And no eggs,” the husband grumbled, staring into the empty pantry. “So it won’t even be a good pancake.”
The husband was a bit of an Eeyore, even in good times. But his wife was the opposite, always cheery, even when times were rough.
“Come on,” she said, pulling him toward their little clay oven in the yard. “We can pretend we have butter and syrup.”
“And blueberries?”
“And blueberries,” the wife agreed.
“I hate blueberries,” grumped the husband.
“Of course you do,” said the wife, who was used to his whole gloomy deal. She pretended to load her arms with invisible butter and syrup and blueberries—and powdered sugar, too, though she didn’t mention that because he would probably complain about the imaginary mess it would make.
Say this for the little clay oven: it made a fantastic pancake. Even the husband had to admit it. Toasty on the bottom, chewy in the middle, and just a hint of smokiness from the wood chunks they used as fuel. When the wife slid this pancake out of the oven, it looked perfect. You know how sometimes you can tell something will be delicious just by looking at it? Such was this pancake. One look and the husband forgot about eggs and syrup and everything else they lacked. He had to close his mouth so he didn’t drool.
Just then, a stranger walked up. He was even skinnier than they were and twice as bedraggled, with clothes so ragged he almost looked like a mummy.
“Something smells good!” he said. “What are you cooking?”
“Nothing,” the husband said, just as his wife lifted the pancake to show the stranger.
“Wow,” said the stranger. “That’s the prettiest pancake I have ever seen.”
“A dash of cornmeal,” the wife said. “That’s my secret.” She did not mention that this batch was made with imaginary cornmeal.
The husband said, “Well, thanks for stopping by,” hoping the stranger would take the hint and leave, but of course, he didn’t. He asked for a taste.
“Just a little piece,” he said. “It’s been so long since I’ve eaten, and that pancake looks so good, and—”
“Get lost,” said the husband just as his wife tore off a big piece.
“We’ll share,” she said firmly, handing the stranger a chunk that looked, to the husband, like half the pancake.
The stranger popped the whole piece in his mouth, mumbling, “So good” as he was chewing, spraying out some crumbs—much to the husband’s dismay, who found it wasteful. Well, at least now the stranger would leave since they had nothing else to offer him.
But he didn’t. He stood there, shifting from foot to foot like he was waiting for something.
“We’re going inside,” said the husband, and since the stranger didn’t seem too sharp with hints, he added, “Don’t follow us.”
The stranger cocked his head, looking puzzled. “You’re not going to eat the other pancakes?”
The wife bent down to peek into the oven and gasped. Great, more pretending, thought the husband—until she started pulling out more pancakes, one after another, a dozen in all.
As the husband gawked, the stranger said, “Do me a favor—share them with your neighbors.”
The husband looked up then, but the stranger had vanished. In his place was a bowl of butter, a pitcher of honey, and a bushel of strawberries, which the husband secretly loved.
They did share the pancakes with their neighbors that day. Most of them, anyway. The husband insisted on holding a few back “so we’ll have something to eat tomorrow,” he explained to his wife.
The next morning, they meant to eat one leftover pancake each, saving the rest for later. But when you have been starving for a while, it’s hard to hold back in the presence of such a feast. Before they knew it, they were gorging themselves on the leftover pancakes and butter and honey.
“Knock, knock,” came a voice from the doorway. It was the stranger. He had to call out like this because the husband and wife didn’t have a door—just a door-shaped hole in the wall.
The husband and wife were both embarrassed to be caught stuffing their faces. Their hands were sticky with honey, their cheeks shiny with butter, and their mouths were full—and worse still, they had no pancakes left to offer the generous stranger. The wife swallowed her last bite and admitted this with regret.
“Oh, that’s all right,” said the stranger. “You can make me a fresh one.”
“But we don’t have any ingredients,” the husband said just as his wife opened the pantry, which was overflowing with food. There was flour, cornmeal, honey, dried beans, pasta, and fresh eggs.
“Oh!” cried the wife, pressing her sticky hands to her shiny cheeks. She grabbed some ingredients and dashed out to start a fire in the little clay oven.
The husband remembered the stranger telling them to share with their neighbors. An idea crept into his head. “With all these ingredients, we could make enough pancakes for the whole village,” he said. “Though it would take all day with our little oven. I don’t suppose you could help us with that?”
The stranger raised an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”
“A bigger oven, maybe indoors. And speaking of doors, we could use one.”
The stranger nodded. “On two conditions: share with your neighbors, and make me a pancake every morning.”
“Done,” said the husband. The stranger nodded and left through a door that had suddenly appeared.
Later that day, they carted a wagonload of fresh pancakes to the village square, handing them out to their surprised neighbors. They did the same the next day, and more neighbors showed up for the giveaway. The husband had a little fun flinging pancakes like frisbees. Morning after morning, the stranger woke them with a knock on the door to ask for a pancake, and each time, they would find the pantry magically restocked.
As they hauled their wagon to the square on the fourth or fifth day, the husband said, “I’ve been thinking.”
“Mm?” said the wife.
“About the meaning of the word ‘share.’”
“Seems pretty straightforward to me.”
“Is it, though? For instance, if we sell these pancakes for a penny apiece, is that still sharing?”
“Um—”
“Think of all the time you spend cooking,” he went on, “and the time we spend bringing the pancakes to the square. Isn’t our time worth something? The penny would be for our time—the pancakes would still be free. Isn’t that still sharing?”
The wife wasn’t sure about this, but the husband seemed happy for once, so she thought, well, why the heck not? A penny for a pancake was still a great deal, and sure enough, the villagers thought so, too. The husband and wife sold out by midday and returned to their hut with a sock full of coins.
So it went, day after day. The stranger woke them with a knock and asked for a pancake. While the wife cooked, the husband made a new request. That’s how the oven turned into a factory, and their hut became a grand chateau, and the pancakes went from one penny to a quarter and finally to $2.87 apiece because taxes and insurance on their growing pancake empire were no joke.
Soon, they had their own brand of pancake mix in stores across the land and were in talks with a television network about a cooking show starring the wife. In the village, people quit their other jobs and let their fields grow wild to work in the pancake factory. The husband thought up a plan to pay the villagers in pancakes and “batter bucks” they could spend at the factory store, which stocked everything a villager could want.
Through it all, the stranger kept showing up every morning, asking for a single fresh pancake and reminding them to share with their neighbors. Honestly, it was getting pretty annoying. For one thing, if the stranger was so magical, why couldn’t he just make a pancake appear for himself? For another, if he knew how much they paid in taxes, he might ease up on the “share with your neighbor” routine. The husband was pretty sure he had singlehandedly funded the village’s new square. And for a third, the stranger came by so early. Every day, his knocking woke them up. Seven days a week!
“Honestly, it’s fine,” said the wife one morning as the stranger knocked and her husband grumbled. “I’ll just go make him a pancake.”
“Enough is enough,” the husband muttered. “We’ve got to set some boundaries.”
The stranger looked surprised when the husband opened the door in his bathrobe. He looked even more surprised when the husband said, “Listen, I’ve got good news. They sell our pancakes in cellophane wrappers at gas stations now. You can get one anything you want—which means you don’t have to come to our door at the butt-crack of dawn ever again.”
The stranger stepped back. “Okay, then,” he said. “I won’t.”
“Okay, then,” the husband replied, feeling pleased with himself. But when he went to close the door, he found it was gone. In its place was a door-shaped hole.
“No,” he whispered.
Yes: He turned around and found himself in his old, shabby hut. The pantry door swung open, revealing a single bowl of withered blueberries. From his bedroom came a sound he had never heard from his cheery wife—a raw wail.
He spun around to look for the stranger, only to see his entire village silently trooping toward his hut.
They looked hungry.