Read Online Whatever by Ann Walsh - Free Book Online

house. He had huge tongs with pointed ends to grab the block of ice. Then he’d sling it over his shoulder and carry it in.”
    â€œYou’re really old, aren’t you?”
    â€œYou’re really rude, aren’t you?”
    I felt my cheeks going red. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean ‘old,’ I meant . . .”
    â€œNice try, but I think ‘old’ is exactly what you meant. Youcan be extremely tactless, you know.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mrs. J.”
    â€œMrs. J? Why did you call me that?”
    â€œSorry, it just sort of slipped out, Mrs. Johnson.”
    â€œIt’s all right. I think I like it. Now, turn to page ninety and let’s get started.”
    I found the recipe for baking powder biscuits and read it out loud. “Two cups of bread flour, one-half teaspoon salt, four teaspoons baking powder . . .”
    â€œFour teaspoons? No wonder mine didn’t rise the last time, I thought it was . . . Go on.”
    â€œTwo to four tablespoons fat, two-thirds of a cup of milk. Follow the general rules.” I looked at her blankly. “What rules?”
    â€œTurn back a page.”
    There were eight general rules. Number one was “see to oven” (I guess that meant firing up the stove with coal or wood), and the final one was “bake 15-20 minutes.” In between were instructions for adding stuff, mixing and kneading. Okay , I thought, that doesn’t sound too hard .
    Mrs. Johnson hoisted herself up to perch on the tall stool and pointed. “In that bottom cupboard there’s a stack of white bowls. Bring them to me and I’ll show you which one to use.” 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.
    â€œThis should do.”
    She directed me to the cupboard where I found flour, to the fridge for lard (good thing I wasn’t 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 “the leavening agent” (baking powder) and used two knives to cut the lard (the “fat” the recipe instructions called it) into the flour until it was the consistency of oatmeal. I’d 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. “Too thick; not thick enough; don’t work it too hard or it will get tough.” 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. “Don’t know where my biscuit cutter is at the moment. Use this glass to cut the biscuits. It’s a bit small, but the shape’s perfect.”
    By the time the kitchen filled with the smell of baking biscuits, I had flour on my nose and dough in my hair. I’d wiped my hands along my jeans without realizing it, and noticed that they, too, were dusted with flour. Mrs. J. laughed at me.
    â€œYou better go clean up,” she said. “Before your father gets here.”
    â€œHe’s probably not coming,” I said, belatedly realizing that I hadn’t left my parents a message telling them where I’d gone. With any luck they weren’t 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 there—during a twenty-minute walk!
    I guess my panic showed. “Trouble?” she asked.
    â€œMy parents. They don’t know I’m here. I have to call them right now.” Floury hands and all, I dashed for my phone in the front hall, getting white hand prints all over my backpack.
    Mom answered.