``Early peas-- . . . green corn-- . . . summer squash-- . . .'' mumbled Billy's dry lips.
``But what do folks eat in January--_January_?''
It was the apparently inoffensive sentence, ``New potatoes will boil in thirty minutes,''
that brought fresh terror to Billy's soul, and set her to fluttering the cookbook leaves with renewed haste. If it took _new_ potatoes thirty minutes to cook, how long did it take old ones? In vain she searched for the answer. There were plenty of potatoes. They were mashed, whipped, scalloped, creamed, fried, and broiled; they were made into puffs, croquettes, potato border, and potato snow. For many of these they were boiled first--``until tender,'' one rule said.
``But that doesn't tell me how long it takes to get 'em tender,'' fumed Billy, despairingly. ``Isuppose they think anybody ought to know that --but I don't!'' Suddenly her eyes fell once more on the instructions for boiling turnips, and her face cleared. ``If it helps to cut turnips thin, why not potatoes?'' she cried. ``I _can_ do that, anyhow; and I will,'' she finished, with a sigh of relief, as she caught up half a dozen potatoes and hurried into the pantry for a knife. A few minutes later, the potatoes, peeled, and cut almost to wafer thinness, were dumped into a basin of cold water.
``There! now I guess you'll cook,'' nodded Billy to the dish in her hand as she hurried to the stove.
Chilled by an ominous unresponsiveness, Billy lifted the stove lid and peered inside. Only a mass of black and graying coals greeted her. The fire was out.
``To think that even you had to go back on me like this!'' upbraided Billy, eyeing the dismal mass with reproachful gaze.
This disaster, however, as Billy knew, was not so great as it seemed, for there was still the gas stove. In the old days, under Dong Ling's rule, there had been no gas stove. Dong Ling disapproved of ``devil stoves'' that had ``no coalee, no woodee, but burned like hellee.'' Eliza, however, did approve of them; and not long after her arrival, a fine one had been put in for her use. So now Billy soon had her potatoes with a brisk blaze under them.
In frantic earnest, then, Billy went to work.
Brushing the discarded onions, turnip, and beets into a pail under the table, she was still confronted with the beefsteak, lettuce, and grapefruit.
All but the beefsteak she pushed to one side with gentle pats.
``You're all right,'' she nodded to them. ``Ican use you. You don't have to be cooked, bless your hearts! But _you_--!'' Billy scowled at the beefsteak and ran her finger down the index of the ``Bride's Helper''--Billy knew how to handle that book now.
``No, you don't--not for me!'' she muttered, after a minute, shaking her finger at the tenderloin on the table. ``I haven't got any `hot coals,' and I thought a `gridiron' was where they played football; though it seems it's some sort of a dish to cook you in, here--but I shouldn't know it from a teaspoon, probably, if I should see it. No, sir! It's back to the refrigerator for you, and a nice cold sensible roast leg of lamb for me, that doesn't have to be cooked. Understand?
_Cooked_,'' she finished, as she carried the beefsteak away and took possession of the hitherto despised cold lamb.
Once more Billy made a mad search through cupboards and shelves. This time she bore back in triumph a can of corn, another of tomatoes, and a glass jar of preserved peaches. In the kitchen a cheery bubbling from the potatoes on the stove greeted her. Billy's spirits rose with the steam.
``There, Spunkie,'' she said gayly to the cat, who had just uncurled from a nap behind the stove. ``Tell me I can't get up a dinner! And maybe we'll have the peach fritters, too, ``she chirped. ``I've got the peach-part, anyway.''
But Billy did not have the peach fritters, after all. She got out the sugar and the flour, to be sure, and she made a great ado looking up the rule; but a hurried glance at the clock sent her into the dining-room to set the table, and all thought of the peach fritters was given up.
