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than that needed for the chicken. What was Ramona to do?

“Stick it in the oven anyway.” Beezus’s face was flushed.

In went the corn bread beside the chicken.

“Dessert!” whispered Beezus.All she could

find was a can of boring pear halves. Back to the cookbook.“Heat with a little butter and serve with jelly in each half,” she read. Jelly.

Half a jar of apricot jam would have to do.

The pears and butter went into the saucepan.

Never mind the syrup spilled on the floor.

“Beezus!” Ramona held up the package

of peas.

Beezus groaned. Out came the partially

cooked chicken while she stirred the thaw-

ing peas into the yoghurt and shoved the

dish back into the oven.

The rice! They had forgotten the rice,

which was only beginning to stick to the pan.

Quick! Take it off the burner. How did their 92

mother manage to get everything cooked at the right time? Put the carrot sticks on a dish. Pour the milk.“Candles!” Beezus whispered.“Dinner might look better if we have candles.”

Ramona found two candle holders and

two partly melted candles of uneven length.

One of them had been used in a Halloween

jack-o’-lantern. Beezus struck the match to light them, because although Ramona was

brave about touching raw meat, she was

skittish about lighting matches.

Was the chicken done? The girls anx-

iously examined their main dish, bubbling

and brown around the edges. Beezus stabbed a thigh with a fork, and when it did not bleed, she decided it must be done. A toothpick

pricked into the corn bread came out clean.

The corn bread was done—flat, but done.

Grit, grit, grit sounded under the girls’

feet. It was amazing how a tiny bit of spilled 93

Cream of Wheat could make the entire kitchen floor gritty. At last their dinner was served, the dining-room light turned off,

dinner announced, and the cooks, tense with anxiety that was hidden by candlelight, fell into their chairs as their parents seated themselves.Was this dinner going to be edible?

“Candles!” exclaimed Mrs. Quimby.

“What a festive meal!”

“Let’s taste it before we decide,” said Mr.

Quimby with his most wicked grin.

The girls watched anxiously as their father took his first bite of chicken. He chewed

thoughtfully and said with more surprise than necessary, “Why this is good!”

“It really is,” agreed Mrs. Quimby, and took a bit of corn bread.“Very good, Ramona,” she said.

Mr. Quimby tasted the corn bread. “Just

like Grandmother used to make,” he pro-

nounced.

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The girls exchanged suppressed smiles.

They could not taste the banana yoghurt,

and by candlelight no one could tell that the corn bread was a little pale. The chicken, Ramona decided, was not as good as her

parents thought—or pretended to think—

but she could eat it without gagging.

Everyone relaxed, and Mrs. Quimby said

chili powder was more interesting than

paprika and asked which recipe they had used for the chicken.

Ramona answered, “Our own,” as she