At the
end of each month she usually found that she weighed three pounds
more than she had the month before.
The folks at home never joked with Pearlie about her weight. Even
one's family has some respect for a life sorrow. Whenever Pearlie
asked that inevitable question of the fat woman: "Am I as fat as
she is?" her mother always answered: "You! Well, I should hope
not! You're looking real peaked lately, Pearlie. And your blue
skirt just ripples in the back, it's getting so big for you."
Of such blessed stuff are mothers made.
But if the gods had denied Pearlie all charms of face or form,
they had been decent enough to bestow on her one gift. Pearlie
could cook like an angel; no, better than an angel, for no angel
could be a really clever cook and wear those flowing kimono-like
sleeves. They'd get into the soup. Pearlie could take a piece of
rump and some suet and an onion and a cup or so of water, and
evolve a pot roast that you could cut with a fork. She could turn
out a surprisingly good cake with surprisingly few eggs, all
covered with white icing, and bearing cunning little jelly
figures on its snowy bosom. She could beat up biscuits that fell
apart at the lightest pressure, revealing little pools of golden
butter within.
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