“Can’t you remember what little specks

Mother uses?” asked Beezus. Ramona could

not. The girls studied the spice shelf,

unscrewed jar lids and sniffed. Nutmeg? No.

Cloves? Terrible. Cinnamon? Uh-uh. Chili

powder? Well. . . .

Yes, that must be it.

Ramona remembered that the specks were

red. Beezus stirred half a teaspoon of the dark red powder into the yoghurt, which

she poured over the chicken. She slid the

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dish into the oven set at 350 degrees, the temperature for chicken recommended by

the cookbook.

From the living room came the sound of

their parents’ conversation, sometimes serious and sometimes highlighted by laughter. While we’re slaving out here, thought Ramona, as she climbed up on the counter to reach the box of cornmeal. After she climbed down,

she discovered she had to climb up again for baking powder and soda. She finally knelt on the counter to save time and asked Beezus

to bring her an egg.

“It’s a good thing Mother can’t see you

up there,” remarked Beezus, as she handed

Ramona an egg.

“How else am I supposed to reach things?”

Ramona successfully broke the egg and tossed the shell onto the counter. “Now I need

buttermilk.”

Beezus broke the news. There was no

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buttermilk in the refrigerator. “What’ll I do?” whispered Ramona in a panic.

“Here. Use this.” Beezus thrust the carton of banana yoghurt at her sister. “Yoghurt is sort of sour, so it might work.”

The kitchen door opened a crack.“What’s

going on in there?” inquired Mr. Quimby.

Beezus hurled herself against the door.

“You stay out!” she ordered.“Dinner is going to be a—surprise!”

For a moment Ramona thought Beezus

had been going to say a mess. She stirred egg and yoghurt together, measured flour, spilling some on the floor, and then discovered she was short of cornmeal. More panic.

“My cooking teacher says you should

always check to see if you have all the ingre-dients before you start to cook,” said Beezus.

“Oh, shut up.” Ramona reached for a

package of Cream of Wheat, because its

grains were about the same size as cornmeal.

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She scattered only a little on the floor.

Something was needed to sop up the sauce

with little red specks when the chicken was served. Rice! The spilled Cream of Wheat

gritted underneath Beezus’s feet as she measured rice and boiled water according to the directions on the package. When the rice

was cooking, she slipped into the dining room to set the table and then remembered they

had forgotten salad. Salad! Carrot sticks were quickest. Beezus began to scrape carrots into the sink.

“Yipe!” yelped Ramona from the counter.

“The rice!”The lid of the pan was chittering.

Beezus snatched a larger pan from the cup-

board and transferred the rice.

“Do you girls need any help?” Mrs.

Quimby called from the living room.

“No!” answered her daughters.

Another calamity. The corn bread should

bake at 400 degrees, a higher temperature