house. He had huge tongs with pointed ends to grab the block of ice. Then heâd sling it over his shoulder and carry it in.â
âYouâre really old, arenât you?â
âYouâre really rude, arenât you?â
I felt my cheeks going red. âIâm sorry. I didnât mean âold,â I meant . . .â
âNice try, but I think âoldâ is exactly what you meant. Youcan be extremely tactless, you know.â
âIâm sorry, Mrs. J.â
âMrs. J? Why did you call me that?â
âSorry, it just sort of slipped out, Mrs. Johnson.â
âItâs all right. I think I like it. Now, turn to page ninety and letâs get started.â
I found the recipe for baking powder biscuits and read it out loud. âTwo cups of bread flour, one-half teaspoon salt, four teaspoons baking powder . . .â
âFour teaspoons? No wonder mine didnât rise the last time, I thought it was . . . Go on.â
âTwo to four tablespoons fat, two-thirds of a cup of milk. Follow the general rules.â I looked at her blankly. âWhat rules?â
âTurn back a page.â
There were eight general rules. Number one was âsee to ovenâ (I guess that meant firing up the stove with coal or wood), and the final one was âbake 15-20 minutes.â In between were instructions for adding stuff, mixing and kneading. Okay , I thought, that doesnât sound too hard .
Mrs. Johnson hoisted herself up to perch on the tall stool and pointed. âIn that bottom cupboard thereâs a stack of white bowls. Bring them to me and Iâll show you which one to use.â Kneeling down, I found the stack of bowls. Once I had put them on the table, she tilted her head to one side, looked at them carefully then pointed to one in the middle.
âThis should do.â
She directed me to the cupboard where I found flour, to the fridge for lard (good thing I wasnât vegetarian) and to the drawer where the measuring cups and spoons were kept. She knew where everything was, right down to the exact shelf in the refrigerator where the cheese was stored.
I sifted flour, added âthe leavening agentâ (baking powder) and used two knives to cut the lard (the âfatâ the recipe instructions called it) into the flour until it was the consistency of oatmeal. Iâd never felt uncooked oatmeal, so I kept passing the bowl back to Mrs. J. until she declared it perfect.
Kneading the dough was easy, but rolling it out was a challenge. âToo thick; not thick enough; donât work it too hard or it will get tough.â She rejected half a dozen sample pieces before declaring that I finally had the right thickness. Reaching into a cupboard above the counter where she sat, she pulled out a heavy drinking glass. âDonât know where my biscuit cutter is at the moment. Use this glass to cut the biscuits. Itâs a bit small, but the shapeâs perfect.â
By the time the kitchen filled with the smell of baking biscuits, I had flour on my nose and dough in my hair. Iâd wiped my hands along my jeans without realizing it, and noticed that they, too, were dusted with flour. Mrs. J. laughed at me.
âYou better go clean up,â she said. âBefore your father gets here.â
âHeâs probably not coming,â I said, belatedly realizing that I hadnât left my parents a message telling them where Iâd gone. With any luck they werenât home yet. Mom and Dadhad stupid rules about knowing where I was every second of every day. Once, when I walked to school, Mom phoned me twice before I got thereâduring a twenty-minute walk!
I guess my panic showed. âTrouble?â she asked.
âMy parents. They donât know Iâm here. I have to call them right now.â Floury hands and all, I dashed for my phone in the front hall, getting white hand prints all over my backpack.
Mom answered.
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