She dropped the cauliflower into a kettle of water and set it on the stove.
“We’ll have everything served separately,” said the canny Marguerite, “and then it will seem like more. Somehow I don’t see much around to eat.”
“Oh, there’s plenty,” said Nan, who was weighing sugar. “Corn fritters are hearty, you know.”
Rosie soon returned with the eggs, and the preparations went merrily on. Nan sang and Marguerite whistled, and occasionally they bumped against each other, and then waltzed a few turns around the kitchen.
“Now, Rosie, supply me with oil and vinegar and salt and pepper, and I’ll whisk up this mayonnaise in a jiffy. Phew! what’s burning?”
It was the cauliflower, but luckily it was only scorched on one side. Marguerite pared off the brown part, pronounced it done, and set it aside to cool.
“Don’t speak to me,” cried Nan, who was wildly manipulating a Dover beater; “this snow pudding won’t snow; it never will when I’m in a hurry.”
“Never mind, deary; it will be just as good soft.”
“It won’t,” wailed Nan; “and Betty will make fun of it—hers are always perfect.”
“Well, you’re perfect, so who cares about a pudding more or less? But jiminetty! when are you going to make the corn fritters? The girls will be here in a minute.”