One o’clock in the morning! Never had she been up so late, not even when she got to go with Mama and Daddy to the doings at the Masonic Hall last winter. “Just think, June,” she said. “We have been up all night, because it is morning now.”
“I think it still counts as night until about five o’clock.” By the light of electricity June had become her old sturdy self again. “Besides we must have gone to sleep.”
“I’m sure I didn’t sleep a wink,” said Emily, who wanted to believe she had been up all night. “I was listening for ghosts.”
“There’s no such thing as ghosts.” Now June could say this. Things were different a little while ago.
Now Mama came running up on the back porch but not with her high heels tapping. She was wearing rubbers over her bare feet and an old coat over her nightgown. Her shiny black hair hung over her shoulder in a braid.
“Mama, where were you?” asked Emily.
“In the door of the woodshed with a pitchfork, in case your father needed me,” she answered, as she stuffed paper and kindling into the stove to start a fire. “He finally got Goliath tied up in the barn and is trying to get the wash boiler off his horns. My good copper wash boiler.” She touched a match to the paper, and the fire began to crackle cheerfully.
So Mama had been standing by ready to attack Goliath with a pitchfork if she was needed. How silly to have thought a mere ghost could run off with Mama. Mama would not have stood for it. She had too much spunk.
“Nothing exciting like this ever happens at home.” June sounded wistful. “All we ever have in the night is a cat fight once in a while.”
“Girls, you must go to bed,” insisted Mama. “Scoot. This very minute.”
For the second time that night the two cousins ran upstairs and snuggled into bed. Emily felt warm and cozy now that she knew Daddy was home.
“I love to spend the night here,” said June drowsily.
“M-hm.” Emily was too sleepy to answer. She had had her scary night after all—a little too scary maybe—but it was nice to know that in a pinch June had a runaway imagination too. Emily wriggled closer to her cousin and fell fast asleep.
7
Emily and The Light Flaky Pie Crust
Emily loved to watch Grandma measure out dress material on the dry-goods side of the store. Times were hard that year and the ladies who bought dress goods did not want to buy one inch more than they needed. Grandma would take the dress pattern and lay it out on the material before she cut the goods from the bolt. All the ladies in the store would gather around and watch, while Grandma figured and figured how to save material.
Emily leaned against the counter and watched. She listened, too, and she learned all sorts of interesting things. She learned, for example, that Arlene Twitchell never ate the crusts of her sandwiches. That was bad enough, but the shameful part was that her mother did not expect her to eat the crusts. She trimmed the crusts off Arlene’s sandwiches herself. The way she spoiled that girl! And the way the boys admired Arlene! Well…
Emily did not see why anyone should expect Arlene to eat the crusts of her sandwiches. Arlene not only had curly hair, she was the prettiest girl in town. Who was Liberty holding aloft a cardboard torch in the Fourth of July parade? Arlene, of course. Who was crowned Queen of the May in front of the high school? Arlene, who else? It was girls like Emily who had to eat the crusts of sandwiches as well as carrots and burnt toast, in the hope that their hair might curl.
Emily learned lots of other things while Grandma laid out patterns on goods. She learned that Grandma Russell, a lady so old the whole town called her Grandma, had climbed up on her roof and mended the shingles herself, and she was eighty-two if she was a day. It just showed what a little pioneer blood in the veins could do for a person. Once Emily ducked under the counter, because Fong Quock came into the store, and while she sat there among the paper bags, she heard one of the ladies telling someone that the secret of the lightest, flakiest pie crust you ever saw was adding a generous pinch of baking powder to the dough.
Emily pricked up her ears at this bit of information. A generous pinch of baking powder added to the dough made a light, flaky pie crust. She must remember to tell Mama. When Mama baked a pie she always apologized. “I don’t know what the trouble is, but my pie crust isn’t as light as it should be.”
Daddy always answered, “It tastes good to me.” Emily did not like pie crust, so she usually ate the filling and left the crust. No one ever said eating pie crust made hair curly.
Emily forgot about the cooking secret she had in her possession until one Sunday morning at breakfast, when Mama suddenly exclaimed, “My land! This is the day of the potluck dinner at the church. I’ve been so busy it completely slipped my mind.”
“What are we going to take?” asked Emily.
Mama dropped into a chair to think a minute. She was dog-tired from all the work that summer. Finally she said, “Emily, I’m afraid we can’t stay for the dinner after the church service. There isn’t time to kill and fry some chickens and there isn’t a thing in the house I can take.”
Miss the potluck dinner at the church! Emily was dreadfully disappointed. That meant she would have to go to Sunday school and then come home, while all the other boys and girls stayed for church and the dinner. “Isn’t there anything we can take?” she pleaded. “Remember, Mama, you said you would remind the minister to say something about more donations for the library.”
Daddy, who had eaten a big bowl of oatmeal with thick cream and a plate of bacon, eggs, and fried potatoes, said, “We always have plenty of milk and eggs. What about custard pies?”
“I don’t have time to make pies before church,” answered Mama.
Emily could not bear missing that potluck dinner, especially when the library might be announced from the pulpit. “Mama, could I make custard pies?” she asked. “If I skipped Sunday school and went to church instead, there would be time. Please, Mama.”
Mama smiled at Emily. “Perhaps you could. At least you could help me. Come on, let’s go to work.”
While Mama cleared the kitchen table, Emily got out the breadboard, the rolling pin, and the pie pans. Daddy put another stick of wood in the stove so the fire would not die down. Emily took a big bowl from the pantry shelf. “Tell me what to put in,” she called to Mama in the kitchen.
“Two and a half cups of flour,” directed Mama. “Some salt—not quite a teaspoonful. Let’s see, some lard. You’d better let me measure that.” Mama came into the pantry and deftly measured the lard out of the lard bucket. “Now Emily, take two knives and slash through the flour and lard until it is as fine as corn meal.”
Emily started to slash. She was about to mention her secret for a light, flaky pie crust, but then she decided no, she would surprise Mama. She would surprise the whole congregation with her pie crust. People who chose her pie for dessert would take one bite and say, “What light, flaky pie crust! I wonder who baked it.” Then Emily would smile modestly and Mama would say, “Emily baked it.” And all the ladies would ask her for the secret of her light, flaky crust. Quickly Emily added a generous pinch of baking powder and then, not certain how big a generous pinch should be, added another generous pinch to make sure. Then she slashed and slashed and according to Mama’s directions, added water, just a little bit.
“There are two secrets to making good pie crust,” said Mama. “Use very little water and handle the dough lightly.”
Emily smiled to herself because she knew a third secret. She dumped out the dough on the breadboard. It looked more like a pile of crumbs than pie crust. When she rolled she got flat crumbs instead of pie crust. She rolled a little harder.
“Lightly, Emily,” said Mama. “Lightly.”
It was no use. The crumbs would not become crust. Mama came and took the rolling pin from Emily. She scooped the crumbs into a pile, gave them a gentle squeeze and a pat, and rolled them out. Pie crust!
“Now let me,” pleaded Emily. This part was fun. S
he draped the crust over the pie tins and slash, slash, trimmed off the ragged edges. Then she tucked under the edges and pressed her thumb around the edge to make neat scallops, just the way Mama did.
Preparing the filling was much easier and soon Emily had her pie shells filled with liquid custard the color of buttercups. Mama tested the oven by holding her hand inside a moment before she set the pies to bake.
While Emily and Mama dressed for church, the kitchen was filled with the sweet fragrance of custard. Emily could just see her pies among the others on one of the tables in the church basement. Golden yellow and freckled with nutmeg…
“Emily, I think it is time to test the pies,” said Mama. “Insert a knife and if it comes out clean, they are done.”
How good the pies smelled! Emily was filled with anticipation as she found a clean knife. Carefully she opened the oven door and peeked inside. She could not believe what she saw. Her beautiful buttercup-colored pies! Whatever could have happened to them? “Mama!” shrieked Emily. “Come here quick!”
Mama’s high heels came tapping down the stairs. “What is it, Emily?”
“My pies!” wailed Emily. “Look!”
Mama leaned over and looked into the oven. “My land, Emily,” she exclaimed, “the crust is on top!”
“I put it on the bottom,” said Emily. “How did it get on top?”
“I don’t know but I’m sure the pies must be done.” Using pot holders, Mama lifted the pies out and set them on the table to cool. They were strange-looking pies. They had nicely browned crusts with little patches of custard showing through here and there.
“We can’t take them to church.” Emily was wilted with disappointment. “Now we’ll have to miss the potluck dinner and the minister will forget to announce about the library.”
Daddy came into the kitchen to examine the cooling pies. “I don’t see why we can’t take them to church,” he said. “There is no reason why a pie can’t taste just as good with the crust on top as on the bottom.”
“I just don’t understand it,” said Mama. “It must be something about my oven.”
“It was my fault,” confessed Emily reluctantly and told how she had planned to surprise the congregation with light, flaky pie crust by adding a generous pinch of baking powder. She was surprised when both Mama and Daddy thought her story was funny.
“That crust is light all right,” said Daddy. “It is so light it floated right up through the custard.”
Mama examined the pies more closely. “You know, the crust really does look light and flaky. All it needed was to be weighed down by a filling of apples or raisins. Now don’t worry, Emily. We’ll wrap up the pies and take them along to church. I’ll unwrap them when no one is looking and there will be so many pies no one will even notice.”
“I’ll eat two pieces,” said Daddy loyally.
And so the Bartletts set off for church with the two pies carefully wrapped in clean dish towels. Emily was wearing her Sunday-school hat, which she did not like one bit. Grandma, who could trim such beautiful hats for ladies, had very definite ideas about what was proper for girls Emily’s age. Emily longed for a hat trimmed with garlands of flowers, clouds of veiling, and maybe an ostrich plume or two, and what did she get? A stiff black Milan hat with a wide brim, a black ribbon hanging down the back, and an elastic under the chin to keep it on. Mama said Emily had the most beautiful hat of any girl in Pitchfork, but Emily had a different opinion of it. It was such a problem, loving Grandma and not liking her little-girl hats.
Sunday school was over when the Bartletts arrived at the little white church, and all the boys and girls were out in the churchyard, playing tag to stretch their legs before the service began. Emily’s cousin June came running over. “Are you bringing pie?” she asked, and Emily noticed that, as usual, one of her barrettes was slipping.
“Yes, June,” answered Mama. “Emily did a little baking.”
“What kind?” demanded June.
Mama hesitated a second. “Custard,” she replied. There would probably be a dozen custard pies at the dinner.
“We brought coleslaw,” said June, and bounded off to try to chin herself on a branch of a locust tree whose leaves were turning yellow.
“Why, there’s Fong Quock,” observed Mama, while Emily looked quickly off in another direction. Then she felt guilty. Fong Quock had given a whole dollar to the library.
“I hope he is bringing rice,” said Daddy. When Fong Quock was younger and Pitchfork was smaller, he had given a party for the whole town once a year. He served Chinese food and Daddy had never forgotten Fong Quock’s rice.
Emily and Mama carried the pies down the steps to the church basement, where some ladies were bustling about setting tables, which were boards laid over saw-horses, and measuring coffee into salt sacks to dangle inside the big graniteware coffeepots. Mama nodded and smiled pleasantly at everyone, and when no one was looking she slipped the dish towels off the pies and set them on a table with the rest of the desserts.
“Mama, I don’t see any other custard pies,” whispered Emily.
“Don’t worry. There will be,” Mama assured her.
Emily was not so sure. Maybe none of the ladies of Pitchfork felt like baking custard pie today. Maybe hers would be the only ones. And June would be sure to blurt out that Emily had baked them. June was a great one for blurting things out.
The church bells began to ring and Emily thought distinctly Ring—out—ye—bells, as she had been taught at school, and filed into the church with Mama and Daddy. Emily felt proud to be sitting in the pew beside Daddy. He looked so big and handsome in his dark suit.
Emily always suffered a terrible temptation in church, because the brown paint on the backs of the pews was blistered and she longed to puncture the blisters to see the gray paint underneath. She glanced down the pew and there was her cousin June busily puncturing the paint blisters. Yield not to temptation, Emily told herself sternly, and tried not to squirm or think about her custard pies.
Emily forgot about her pies when Mr. Bonnett, the minister, stood up and actually did announce the library from the pulpit. He gave a little talk about the good ladies who were giving so generously of their time to bring books to the people of Pitchfork, and how they would welcome donations of money and good books, and what a fine thing a library would be for the boys and girls growing up in Pitchfork.
And the boy who walks down the railroad track with his clean white flour sack, Emily added to herself.
Then Mr. Bonnett began his text for the day—the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Emily enjoyed the story of Jesus feeding the multitudes with five loaves of bread and two fishes, but as Mr. Bonnett went on and on, Emily found it difficult to sit still and she was sure the elastic on her hat would choke her before the sermon ended. Mr. Bonnett reminded the congregation that the people of Pitchfork should have faith. It was faith that had fed the multitudes.
Emily felt squirmier and squirmier. In Pitchfork, where everything grew so readily, it was easy to have enough faith to feed the multitudes. It was harder to have faith about things like libraries, but if faith would help, Emily would have faith. She squirmed some more and caught Mama frowning at her. To keep herself still, she sat at attention the way she had learned at school—eyes ahead, back straight, feet on the floor, hands folded—and had faith that Pitchfork would get a real library. The trouble was, the elastic on her hat was so tight. If only Grandma would let her have the kind of grown-up hat that was held on with hatpins instead of this elastic under the chin….
What a relief it was to be able to stand up and sing the final hymn:
“Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves,
We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.”
This was Emily’s favorite hymn. When she sang it she could just see Daddy at harvesttime striding along with sheaves of wheat in his arms.
As soon as she could, Emily scampered down the steps and around to the door of the church basemen
t. By the time she got there she had her hat off. She hung it on a hook and sidled over to the table of desserts.
If there was one thing the ladies of Pitchfork were good at, it was baking. There were cakes, all kinds of cakes—pound cake, Lady Baltimore cake, angel cake, devil’s food (was it really all right to bring devil’s food to church, Emily wondered), pineapple upside-down cake with a cherry in each circle of pineapple, walnut loaf cake, the kind without frosting. And there were pies, too. Cherry pie with the top crust made of woven strips. Apple pie. Emily could see the cinnamon through the slashes in the crusts. Lemon pie with meringue in delicate peaks. Blackberry pies with crimson juice oozing through the crust. And custard pies, two of them—Emily’s.
The only thing Emily could do was pretend she knew nothing about the pies and hope that June would forget them. She found a place at a bench beside Daddy at one of the long tables. Mama was busy helping some of the other ladies serve the food.
June came along and plopped herself down on the bench beside Emily. “I’m hungry,” June announced. “I could eat a horse.”
Emily felt suddenly shy when Mr. Bonnett sat down opposite her. He was such an important man, a man who could stand up in the pulpit and speak to the multitudes about the library. Whatever could she find to say to him, this man who could speak to the multitudes?
The food the ladies set on the table! Platters of fried chicken. Bowls of chicken and dumplings. String beans that had simmered for hours with bits of bacon. Huge pans of escaloped potatoes. Bowls of coleslaw, the cabbage sliced thin as paper. And rice. Fong Quock had brought a huge kettle of rice. His rice was the despair of all the ladies in Pitchfork. All their husbands asked for rice the way Fong Quock cooked it, but no matter how hard they tried, none of the ladies could cook rice so that each grain was separate and fluffy and there was crisp brown crust on the bottom of the kettle. The ladies of Pitchfork burned a lot of rice trying.
Emily's Runaway Imagination Page 8
