Ramona and Her Mother by Beverly Cleary Read Free Book Online

dance.
    â€œNo matter how much my grandmother had to scrimp and pinch to make ends meet,” said Mr. Quimby, “she always managed to find money to buy paper for me to draw on.”
    Scrimp and pinch to make ends meet, thought Ramona, liking the sound of the words. She would remember them. The smell of bacon sizzling made her feel better. It also made her hungrier.
    â€œMy grandmother taught me useful things, too.” Mrs. Quimby had had time to think. “She taught me that a dab of spit would stop a run in a stocking.” She flicked another drop of water on the griddle. This one danced. The griddle was hot.
    â€œSome grandmother,” said Mr. Quimby, “spitting on her stockings.”
    â€œYou’re both being silly,” Beezus burst out. “Just plain silly!”
    â€œYoung lady, you keep out of this,” ordered Mr. Quimby.
    Beezus glared at her father. “Well, you are,” she muttered.
    Mrs. Quimby silently poured four puddles of batter on the griddle. Ramona prayed that the quarrel, whatever it was about, was over.
    Beezus stirred mayonnaise into the blood-free carrots, which she then divided on four limp lettuce leaves on four salad plates. Mr. Quimby turned the bacon. Mrs. Quimby flipped the pancakes. Ramona’s stomach relaxed. In a moment her mother would slide the pancakes onto a platter and start another four cooking. Ramona could hardly wait, she was so hungry.
    â€œAre you sure those pancakes are done?” asked Mr. Quimby as his wife slid the pancake turner under them. “They don’t look done to me.”
    â€œThey bubbled in the middle before I turned them,” said Mrs. Quimby, “and they look done to me.”
    Mr. Quimby took the pancake turner from his wife. Using it as a weapon, he slashed each pancake in the center. Ramona and Beezus exchanged a shocked look. Their father had slashed their mother’s pancakes! He had gone too far. Frightened, they watched raw batter ooze from four gashes in the pancakes. Their father was right. The cakes were not done. Now what would their mother do?
    Mrs. Quimby was furious. She snatched back the pancake turner, scooped up the oozing cakes, and tossed them into the garbage.
    â€œYou didn’t need to do that.” Mr. Quimby looked amused. He had won. “You could have turned them again and let them finish cooking.”
    â€œAnd I suppose your grandmother made absolutely perfect pancakes,” said Mrs. Quimby in a voice stiff with anger.
    Mr. Quimby looked calm and even more amused. “As a matter of fact, she did,” he said. “Brown and lacy, cooked all the way through, and with crisp edges.”
    â€œThe best pancakes you ever ate,” stated Mrs. Quimby in a voice that made Ramona silently pray. Mother, be nice again. Please, please be nice again.
    â€œRight,” said Mr. Quimby. “Light enough to melt in your mouth.”
    Be quiet, Daddy, prayed Ramona. You’ll make things worse.
    â€œOh—you!” Mrs. Quimby gave Mr. Quimby a swat on the seat of his pants with the pancake turner before she threw it on the counter. “Bake them yourself since you learned so much from that noble grandmother of yours!”
    Ramona and Beezus stood frozen with shock. Their mother had hit their father with a pancake turner. Ramona wanted to fly at her mother, to strike her and cry out, You hit my daddy! She dared not.
    Mr. Quimby tucked a dish towel in his belt for an apron and calmly ladled batter onto the griddle while his wife stalked into the living room and sat down with the newspaper. If only he wouldn’t whistle so cheerfully as he deftly turned the cakes and drained the bacon.
    â€œDinner is served,” Mr. Quimby announced as he set a platter of hot cakes and bacon on the table and pulled the dish towel from his belt. Silently Mrs. Quimby joined the family.
    Even though her mother was usually a much better cook than her father, Ramona had to