by Ann Cameron
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Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York
Text copyright © 1981 by Ann Cameron
Illustrations copyright © 1981 by Ann Strugnell
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eISBN: 978-0-307-80119-7
Reprinted by arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers
v3.1
CONTENTS
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
The Pudding Like a Night on the Sea
Catalog Cats
Our Garden
Because of Figs
My Very Strange Teeth
Gloria Who Might Be My Best Friend
About the Authors
The Pudding Like a Night on the Sea
“I’m going to make something special for your mother,” my father said.
My mother was out shopping. My father was in the kitchen, looking at the pots and the pans and the jars of this and that.
“What are you going to make?” I said.
“A pudding,” he said.
My father is a big man with wild black hair. When he laughs, the sun laughs in the window-panes. When he thinks, you can almost see his thoughts sitting on all the tables and chairs. When he is angry, me and my little brother, Huey, shiver to the bottom of our shoes.
“What kind of pudding will you make?” Huey said.
“A wonderful pudding,” my father said. “It will taste like a whole raft of lemons. It will taste like a night on the sea.”
Then he took down a knife and sliced five lemons in half. He squeezed the first one. Juice squirted in my eye.
“Stand back!” he said, and squeezed again. The seeds flew out on the floor. “Pick up those seeds, Huey!” he said.
Huey took the broom and swept them up.
My father cracked some eggs and put the yolks in a pan and the whites in a bowl. He rolled up his sleeves and pushed back his hair and beat up the yolks. “Sugar, Julian!” he said, and I poured in the sugar.
He went on beating. Then he put in lemon juice and cream and set the pan on the stove. The pudding bubbled and he stirred it fast. Cream splashed on the stove.
“Wipe that up, Huey!” he said.
Huey did.
It was hot by the stove. My father loosened his collar and pushed at his sleeves. The stuff in the pan was getting thicker and thicker. He held the beater up high in the air. “Just right!” he said, and sniffed in the smell of the pudding.
He whipped the egg whites and mixed them into the pudding. The pudding looked softer and lighter than air.
“Done!” he said. He washed all the pots, splashing water on the floor, and wiped the counter so fast his hair made circles around his head.
“Perfect!” he said. “Now I’m going to take a nap. If something important happens, bother me. If nothing important happens, don’t bother me. And—the pudding is for your mother. Leave the pudding alone!”
He went to the living room and was asleep in a minute, sitting straight up in his chair.
Huey and I guarded the pudding.
“Oh, it’s a wonderful pudding,” Huey said.
“With waves on the top like the ocean,” I said.
“I wonder how it tastes,” Huey said.
“Leave the pudding alone,” I said.
“If I just put my finger in—there—I’ll know how it tastes,” Huey said.
And he did it.
“You did it!” I said. “How does it taste?”
“It tastes like a whole raft of lemons,” he said. “It tastes like a night on the sea.”
“You’ve made a hole in the pudding!” I said. “But since you did it, I’ll have a taste.” And it tasted like a whole night of lemons. It tasted like floating at sea.
“It’s such a big pudding,” Huey said. “It can’t hurt to have a little more.”
“Since you took more, I’ll have more,” I said.
“That was a bigger lick than I took!” Huey said. “I’m going to have more again.”
“Whoops!” I said.
“You put in your whole hand!” Huey said. “Look at the pudding you spilled on the floor!”
“I am going to clean it up,” I said. And I took the rag from the sink.
“That’s not really clean,” Huey said.
“It’s the best I can do,” I said.
“Look at the pudding!” Huey said.
It looked like craters on the moon. “We have to smooth this over,” I said. “So it looks the way it did before! Let’s get spoons.”
And we evened the top of the pudding with spoons, and while we evened it, we ate some more.
“There isn’t much left,” I said.
“We were supposed to leave the pudding alone,” Huey said.
“We’d better get away from here,” I said. We ran into our bedroom and crawled under the bed. After a long time we heard my father’s voice.
“Come into the kitchen, dear,” he said. “I have something for you.”
“Why, what is it?” my mother said, out in the kitchen.
Under the bed, Huey and I pressed ourselves to the wall.
“Look,” said my father, out in the kitchen. “A wonderful pudding.”
“Where is the pudding?” my mother said.
“WHERE ARE YOU BOYS?” my father said. His voice went through every crack and corner of the house.
We felt like two leaves in a storm.
“WHERE ARE YOU? I SAID!” My father’s voice was booming.
Huey whispered to me, “I’m scared.”
We heard my father walking slowly through the rooms.
“Huey!” he called. “Julian!”
We could see his feet. He was coming into our room.
He lifted the bedspread. There was his face, and his eyes like black lightning. He grabbed us by the legs and pulled. “STAND UP!” he said.
We stood.
“What do you have to tell me?” he said.
“We went outside,” Huey said, “and when we came back, the pudding was gone!”
“Then why were you hiding under the bed?” my father said.
We didn’t say anything. We looked at the floor.
“I can tell you one thing,” he said. “There is going to be some beating here now! There is going to be some whipping!”
The curtains at the window were shaking. Huey was holding my hand.
“Go into the kitchen!” my father said. “Right now!”
We went into the kitchen.
“Come here, Huey!” my father said.
Huey walked toward him, his hands behind his back.
“See these eggs?” my father said. He cracked them and put the yolks in a pan and set the pan on the counter. He stood a chair by the counter. “Stand up here,” he said to Huey.
Huey stood on the chair by the counter.
“Now it’s time for your beating!” my father said.
Huey started to cry. His tears fell in with the egg yolks.
“Take this!” my father said. My father handed him the egg beater. “Now beat those eggs,” he said. “I want this to be a good beating!”
“Oh!” Huey said. He stopped crying. And he beat the egg yolks.
“Now you, Julian, stand here!” my father said.
I stood on a chair by the table.
“I hope you’re ready for your whipping!”
I didn’t answer. I was afraid to say yes or no.
“Here!” he said, and he set the egg whites in front of me. “I want these whipped and whipped well!”
“Yes, sir!” I said, and started whipping.
My father watched us. My mother came into the kitchen and watched us.
After a while Huey said, “This is hard work.”
“That’s too bad,” my father said. “Your beating’s not done!” And he added sugar and cream and lemon juice to Huey’s pan and put the pan on the stove. And Huey went on beating.
“My arm hurts from whipping,” I said.
“That’s too bad,” my father said. “Your whipping’s not done.”
So I whipped and whipped, and Huey beat and beat.
“Hold that beater in the air, Huey!” my father said.
Huey held it in the air.
“See!” my father said. “A good pudding stays on the beater. It’s thick enough now. Your beating’s done.” Then he turned to me. “Let’s see those egg whites, Julian!” he said. They were puffed up and fluffy. “Congratulations, Julian!” he said. “Your whipping’s done.”
He mixed the egg whites into the pudding himself. Then he passed the pudding to my mother.
“A wonderful pudding,” she said. “Would you like some, boys?”
“No thank you,” we said.
She picked up a spoon. “Why, this tastes like a whole raft of lemons,” she said. “This tastes like a night on the sea.”
Catalog Cats
“Would you boys like to plant gardens?” my father said.
“Yes,” we said.
“Good!” said my father. “I’ll order a catalog.”
So it was settled. But afterward, Huey said to me, “What’s a catalog?”
“A catalog,” I said, “is where cats come from. It’s a big book full of pictures of hundreds and hundreds of cats. And when you open it up, all the cats jump out and start running around.”
“I don’t believe you,” Huey said.
“It’s true,” I said.
“But why would Dad be sending for that catalog cat book?”
“The cats help with the garden,” I said.
“I don’t believe you,” Huey said.
“It’s true,” I said. “You open the catalog, and the cats jump out. Then they run outside and work in the garden. White cats dig up the ground with their claws. Black cats brush the ground smooth with their tails. Yellow and brown cats roll on the seeds to push them underground so they can grow.”
“I don’t believe you,” Huey said. “Cats don’t act like that.”
“Of course,” I said, “ordinary cats don’t act like that. That’s why you have to get them specially—catalog cats.”
“Really?” Huey said.
“Really,” I said.
“I’m going to ask Dad about it,” Huey said.
“You ask Dad about everything,” I said. “Don’t you think it’s time you learned something on your own for a change?”
Huey looked hurt. “I do learn things by myself,” he said. “I wonder when the catalog will come.”
“Soon,” I said.
The next morning Huey woke me up. “I dreamed about the catalog cats!” he said. “Only in my dream the yellow and brown ones were washing the windows and painting the house! You don’t suppose they could do that, do you?”
“No, they can’t do that, Huey,” I said. “They don’t have a way to hold rags and paintbrushes.”
“I suppose not,” Huey said.
Every day Huey asked my father if the catalog had come.
“Not yet,” my father kept saying. He was very pleased that Huey was so interested in the garden.
Huey dreamed about the catalog cats again. A whole team of them was carrying a giant squash to the house. One had his teeth around the stem. The others were pushing it with their shoulders and their heads.
“Do you think that’s what they really do, Julian?” Huey said.
“Yes, they do that,” I said.
Two weeks went by.
“Well, Huey and Julian,” my father said, “today is the big day. The catalog is here.”
“The catalog is here! The catalog is here! The catalog is here!” Huey said. He was dancing and twirling around.
I was thinking about going someplace else.
“What’s the matter, Julian?” my father said. “Don’t you want to see the catalog?”
“Oh, yes, I—want to see it,” I said.
My father had the catalog under his arm. The three of us sat down on the couch.
“Open it!” Huey said.
My father opened the catalog.
Inside were bright pictures of flowers and vegetables. The catalog company would send you the seeds, and you could grow the flowers and vegetables.
Huey started turning the pages faster and faster. “Where are the cats? Where are the cats?” he kept saying.
“What cats?” my father said.
Huey started to cry.
My father looked at me. “Julian,” he said, “please tell me what is going on.”
“Huey thought catalogs were books with cats in them. Catalog cats,” I said.
Huey sobbed. “Julian told me! Special cats—cats that work in gardens! White ones—they dig up the dirt. Black ones—they brush the ground with their tails. Yellow and brown ones—they roll on the seeds.” Huey was crying harder than ever.
“Julian!” said my father.
“Yes,” I said. When my fathers voice gets loud, mine gets so small I can only whisper.
“Julian,” my father said, “didn’t you tell Huey that catalog cats are invisible?”
“No,” I said.
“Julian told me they jumped out of catalogs! He said they jump out and work in gardens. As soon as you get the catalog, they go to work.”
“Well,” said my father, “that’s very ignorant. Julian has never had a garden before in his life. I wouldn’t trust a person who has never had a garden in his life to tell me about catalog cats. Would you?”
“No,” Huey said slowly. He was still crying a little.
My father pulled out his handkerchief and gave it to Huey. “Now, blow your nose and listen to me,” my father said.
Huey blew his nose and sat up straight on the couch. I sat back and tried to be as small as I could.
“First of all,” said my father, “a lot of people have wasted a lot of time trying to see catalog cats. It’s a waste of time because catalog cats are the fastest animals alive. No one is as quick as a catalog cat. It may be that
they really are visible and that they just move so quickly you can’t see them. But you can feel them. When you look for a catalog cat over your right shoulder, you can feel that he is climbing the tree above your left ear. When you turn fast and look at the tree, you can feel that he has jumped out and landed behind your back. And then sometimes you feel all the little hairs on your backbone quiver—that’s when you know a catalog cat is laughing at you and telling you that you are wasting your time.”
“Catalog cats love gardens, and they love to work in gardens. However, they will only do half the work. If they are in a garden where people don’t do any work, the catalog cats will not do any work either. But if they are in a garden where people work hard, all the work will go twice as fast because of the catalog cats.”
“When you were a boy and had a garden,” Huey said, “did your garden have catalog cats?”
“Yes,” my father said, “my garden had catalog cats.”
“And were they your friends?” Huey said.
“Well,” my father said, “they like people, but they move too fast to make friends.
“There’s one more thing,” my father said. “Catalog cats aren’t in garden catalogs, and no one can order catalog cats. Catalog cats are only around the companies the catalogs come from. You don’t order them, you request them.”
“I can write up a request,” I said.
“Huey can do that very well, I’m sure,” my father said, “if he would like to. Would you like to, Huey?”
Huey said he would.
My father got a piece of paper and pencil.
And Huey wrote it all down:
Our Garden
We planted tomatoes, squash, onions, garlic, peas, pumpkins, and potatoes. Besides that we planted two special things we saw in the catalog, which were—
Genuine corn of the Ancients! It grows 20 feet high. Harvest your com with a ladder. Surprise your friends and neighbors.
and
Make a house of flowers. Our beans grow ten feet tall. Grow them around string! Make a beautiful roof and walls out of their scarlet blossoms.
Huey was the one who wanted the house of flowers the most. I wanted the giant corn. My father said he wasn’t sure he wanted either giant corn or a flower house, and if we wanted them, we would have to take care of them all summer by pulling weeds. We said we would.
