“Fold in sugar very gently, add one teaspoon of vanilla and a half teaspoon of almond extract,” chanted Mona dreamily. “Pour into nine-inch mold, sprinkle lightly with chopped almonds, and—”
“Rub into the scalp thoroughly,” concluded Rush unkindly. “Cat’s sake, what are you talking about?”
“A recipe I got from Mr. Titus,” Mona explained. “I memorized it instead of writing it down. That way I can’t lose it. Bake in a slow oven—” she continued.
“Until the color and texture of grated charcoal,” said Rush. “Garnish with nuts, bolts, and old washers, and serve one month later. What is all this, anyhow, Mona? First we have Shakespeare in big doses and now we have recipes. From Hamlet to omelet in practically no time at all.”
“I have lots more,” said Mona complacently. “How would you like to hear Mr. Titus’s recipe for pound cake? I’ll do it with dramatic expression this time. A pound of sugar!” Mona smote her brow and staggered a little. “A pound of butter!” She moaned as she said it. “A dozen eggs.” Her voice dropped to a tragic whisper. “Four cups of sifted flour—” She opened her eyes with the mad smile of Lady Macbeth. “And two cups of RAISINS!”
“Okay, okay,” cried Rush. “I’ll eat it but I won’t listen to it!”
For some time now Mona had been experimenting with cooking. It had begun, weeks ago, with a cake, which to her own surprise and everyone else’s had turned out to be very good. It had gone on to a batch of popovers, to another cake (not quite so good), and thence to meringues. During each of these early experiments she had worked with furious concentration, cookbook propped before her, utensils and ingredients in mad profusion all about her, and a savage glitter in her eye. When the product in question had finally reached the sanctuary of the oven, Mona could be seen hovering before it anxiously, sniffing at the crack in the door, wringing her hands, all but praying.
“The murder suspect awaiting the verdict of the jury,” Rush said.
She was remarkably lucky. The verdict was nearly always favorable, with now and then a healthy lapse such as that first rhubarb pie, a flat, flat raisin cake, and a sullen batch of doughnuts.
She pored over cookbooks, memorized recipes, lived in a daydream involving boiled frosting, melted shortening, egg whites. Her infatuation with baking led her to use up the last of the family sugar before the next ration ticket was due, and in consequence no Melendy had sugar on his cereal for a week, and every time Rush saw her he scowled darkly and muttered, “Let her eat cake!”
After that Cuffy had put her foot down, and Mona’s fancy was confined to unsweetened foods such as soups, biscuits, and vegetables. She grumbled about this a good deal, but her interest continued. Now that Cuffy was away she allowed herself a free rein. Already there were three jars full of different kinds of cookies, and she was thinking of making a fruitcake.
“Listen, Mona,” Rush said suddenly, a few days after the fire. “You’d better forget the delicacies for a while. Everything in the garden is getting ripe at once. Tomatoes turn red overnight. If they’re not picked right away they just lie down on the ground and rot to get even. And the cucumbers! Jeepers, one minute they’re the size of my little finger and the next they’re junior-size blimps. What’re we going to do?”
“We eat tomatoes for every meal except breakfast now,” Randy said. “And the cucumbers are just getting boring.”
“Maybe we could sell them,” offered Oliver hopefully.
“Nix, small fry. In a rural community like this it would be coals to Newcastle.”
“Canning is the answer,” Mona said. “Oh, if only Cuffy were here!”
A moment later she looked up, striking the table with her mixing spoon.
“We’ll do it ourselves! We’ll surprise Cuffy.”
“O-o-oh, no!” said Rush. “And have us all dead with bottling bacillus or whatever it is. No, thank you.”
“Botulinus bacillus,” corrected Mona. “Oh, Rush, don’t be so stuffy. I’ll get a book about it and do everything just the way it says. I’ll only can safe things like the tomatoes, and I’ll make pickles of the cucumbers.”
“Gee whiz,” said Rush. “Why did I bring it up?”
“And you’ll help me, too. We’ll begin tomorrow. You and Mark and Willy get the tomatoes and cucumbers; Oliver you wash them off outside at the hose fixture. Scrub them good!”
“Gee whiz,” said Oliver, “I was going fishing.”
“And, Randy, you can help me in the kitchen. Peeling and cutting things up and all.”
“Gee whiz,” said Randy. “I was going over to Daphne’s.”
“No, you’ll all just have to help. I’m not any Little Red Hen,” said Mona sternly. “Now I’m going to Carthage and buy some jars, and a book on canning and then I’m going to ask people about it: Mrs. Wheelright and Mr. Titus, and maybe the Addisons.”
The last proved to be a poor idea. Mona came home with her head in a whirl of different canning methods.
“Gosh,” she wailed. “They all swear by different systems, and I can’t remember any of ’em. Mrs. Wheelright says open kettle, Mrs. Addison says oven, Mr. Titus says cold pack—”
“You better do it like Mr. Titus says,” Oliver advised. “He knows all about food.”
Mona slept an uneasy sleep that night, and her dreams were long dull dreams about tomatoes.
She rose early the next morning, got breakfast with Randy, and studied her canning book. By the time the boys and Willy began bringing the vegetables, she knew it almost by heart.
She and Randy were enthusiastic about the first bushel-basketful of tomatoes, it seemed a treasure trove: an abundance of sleek vermilion fruit, still beaded with dew. The second bushel also looked very pretty, the third a little less so, and by the time the fourth one arrived she stared at it with an emotion of horror.
“There can’t be that many, Rush!”
“You asked for it, pal. There’s the living evidence. And in twenty-four hours there’ll be this much over again.” He wiped his hands on his overalls. “And now make way for the cucumbers.”
“The cucumbers!” Mona sank weakly into a kitchen chair. “I forgot all about them!”
There were two bushels of these. The kitchen was swamped with vegetables.
“I’ll never laugh at any of those kitchen police jokes again,” Randy said, about an hour later. She was standing in front of the washtub skinning tomatoes. “Look at these things! They skip right out of my fingers like live frogs.”
“Here’s the first sterilized jar,” said Mona, in a hushed, scared voice. “Start putting ’em in, Ran. I’ll get the juice to pour over.”
It was a long, hot, clumsy business. Mona dropped sterilized lids on the floor, and they had to be sterilized all over again; Randy cut herself with the paring knife; Mona half-scalded her fingers getting the first jar into the boiler. Randy skidded and fell on a slippery tomato skin which had somehow landed on the kitchen floor. They lost two jars of tomatoes from the first batch when they were taking them out of the boiler. The first was dropped by Mona when she thoughtlessly took hold of it with her bare hands. The second exploded like a bomb, all by itself.
“I guess there was something the matter with it,” said Randy brilliantly.
“We still have six left, anyway,” said Mona. “And they look just like real canned tomatoes. I can’t get over it!”
In the midst of all this, of course, Rush, Mark, Oliver, and Willy came in, hungry for lunch. Observing the sea of glass and spilt tomatoes Rush assumed a murderous leer, and prowled to and fro growling, “BL-OOD! BL-OOD!” Then he stood up straight, frowned importantly, and turned to Willy Sloper. “Call Scotland Yard at once, Carstairs. Something extremely fishy has been going on here. A clear case of vegetable homicide!”
“Oh, Rush, it can’t be noon,” wailed Mona. “We’ve only started. We haven’t even thought about lunch.”
“They could have some cornflakes,” said Randy helpfully. “And there are some cold noodles in the icebox.”
“Cornflakes. Cold noodles,” commented Rush. Then he crouched again. “BL-OOD! BL-OOD!”
“Cheer up, Mona,” Willy said. “I got a frying pan and some eggs. We’ll get some potatoes and have our lunch outdoors.”
“Willy, you’re swell,” sighed Mona gratefully. “And maybe if there’s anything left over—”
“Sure, we’ll cook yours, too.” Willy spoke over the loud protests of Rush, who was all for letting the girls languish on a diet of cornflakes and cold noodles. “Just like you suggested, Randy. Try mixing them with a little Rinso, and some catsup. M-m, boy, delicious! Try whipping them up with a couple of raw eggs and a dash of bicarbonate—”
“You get out of here, Rush! You’re making me sick to my stomach,” commanded Mona. “All of you go. This is women’s territory.”
“And the men can have it as far as I’m concerned,” she added an hour or two later. “I never felt so hot and messy in my life. And all for a few old jars of tomatoes that will just get eaten up without anybody noticing.”
Her face was scarlet with exertion. Her hair was tied up in a dish towel, and her apron was covered with tomato stains.
Randy looked worse if anything. There were tomato seeds in her hair and an orange smear across one cheek. She was wearing nothing but a faded old playsuit and an apron.
“Gee whiz,” she said. “You know how I feel? I feel like an old, old woman about forty years old, with fallen arches.”
“Still they look sort of nice. The tomatoes, I mean, not your arches. Look, Ran.”
They were nice. Sixteen sealed jars of scarlet fruit, upside down on the kitchen table.
“Cuffy will be glad.”
Mona nodded. They each sank into a chair; stared at their creations with the fond gloating of misers. Even as they stared and gloated another jar exploded. Hot tomatoes flew about the kitchen like larks, and so did bits of glass. Randy got a cut on the collarbone and Mona got a tomato in the eye.
At that very moment Mr. Titus appeared at the door.
To his everlasting credit, and the eternal gratitude of Mona and Randy, he didn’t laugh at the spectacle confronting him. He didn’t even smile. He just stood there, holding his shredded straw hat in his hand and said, “Thought maybe you might be able to use a helper. I knocked at the door and then I hollered. Guess you was too busy to hear.”
“Mr. Titus, you’re an answer to prayer.” Mona was half in tears, and her eye hurt. “The flak around here is something fierce.”
Randy gave Mr. Titus a hug. “Next to Father I’d rather see Cuffy, and next to Cuffy I’d rather see you come in here right now than anybody in the whole world.”
Mona took his hat. Randy flew for one of Cuffy’s big checked aprons; and in a little while the kitchen had turned from a cave of chaos to an orderly, efficient place. The tomatoes quieted down and allowed themselves to be canned submissively. They knew their master.
By six o’clock, in addition to three dozen perfect jars of tomatoes, there was a good supper cooking on the stove. Mr. Titus declined their invitation to stay and share it with them.
“No, thanks just the same. Got to get home. Got to feed Hambone. But I’ll be by tomorrow. Around half past eight, maybe? Then we’ll polish off the resta them tomatoes and get to work on the cukes. Dill pickles, maybe. I got some dill. And piccalilli and pin-money and mustard pickles. M-m, makes my mouth smart just to talk about it. I sure like pickles.”
Rush watched Mr. Titus leave with awe. Then he turned and looked at his sisters for a moment.
“Women’s territory, eh?” said he.
But even Rush knew better than to rub it in.
