“But where will you get chicken to fry?”
“There’s a whole slew of them in the ice-box, all ready fixed to cook. I suppose Aunt Malinda won’t like it, to have me take them, if she’s planned them for some other time, but there’s plenty more chickens in the world. Come along, Jane Potter, and get a pan of potatoes to peel. That’s the sitting-downest job there is. Molly Martin, you can make nice raised—I mean bakin’-powder biscuit—there’s the flour barrel. Don’t waste any time. Everybody fly around sharp and do her level best!”
After all it was Alfaretta who took charge, and under her capable direction every girl was presently busy at work.
“I’m going to make pies. Two lemons, two punkins, two apples. That ought to be enough to go around; only they’ll all want the lemon ones. ‘Christ Church,’ Teacher told me when I made him one once. Said ’twas the pastry cook at Christ Church College, in England, ’t first thought them out. I can make ’em good, too. What you goin’ to make, yourself, Dorothy Calvert?”
“I reckon—pop-overs. Mother Martha used to make them lovely. They’re nothing but eggs and flour and—and—I’ll have to think. Oh! I know. There’s an old recipe book in the cupboard, though I don’t believe Malinda can read a word in it. She just spreads it out on the table, important like, and pretends she follows its rules, but often I’ve seen it was upside down. Do you know how she makes jelly?”
“No, nor don’t want to. We ain’t makin’ jelly to-night, and do for goodness’ sake get to work!” cried Alfaretta, imparting energy to all by her own activity. “Ma says I’m a born cook and I’m going to prove it, to-night, though I don’t expect to cook for a living. Jane Potter, you ought to know better than peel them ’tatoes so thick. ‘Many littles make a mickle,’ I mean a lot of potato skins make a potato—Oh! bother, do right, that’s all. Just because Mrs. Calvert she’s a rich ’ristocratic, ’tain’t no reason we should waste her substance on the pigs.”
Jane did not retort, but it was noticeable that thereafter she kept her eyes more closely on her work and not dreamily upon the floor. Presently, from out that roomy kitchen rose a medley of odors that floated even to the workers out of doors; each odor most appetizing and distinct to the particular taste of one or another of the lads.
“That’s fried chicken! Glad they had sense enough to give us something hearty,” said Monty, smacking his lips.
Herbert sniffed, then advised: “I’ll warrant you that Helena will try angel cake. If she does, don’t any of you touch it; or if you think that isn’t polite and will hurt her feelings, why take a piece and leave it lie beside your plate. Wonder if they’ll ever get the supper ready, anyhow.”