Three hours—and it was five, now!
Frenziedly, then, she ran her finger down the page.
“Onions, one and one-half hours. Use hot water. Turnips require a long time, but if cut thin they will cook in an hour and a quarter.”
“An hour and a quarter, indeed!” she moaned.
“Isn't there anything anywhere that doesn't take forever to cook?”
“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. “I suppose 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.