Stirring It Up! Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  chapter 1

  chapter 2

  chapter 3

  chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  chapter 6

  chapter 7

  chapter 8

  chapter 9

  chapter 10

  chapter 11

  chapter 12

  chapter 13

  chapter 14

  Teaser chapter

  For Bonnie Bader, collaborator, editor, friend—D.M.

  Thanks to Kristina Williams, age 10, for her help with “instant messaging-speak” and her contributions to Chapter 1: Jennifer Terrell for so enthusiastically sharing her culinary expertise and advice; and Firefighter Tom Molta, Rescue Company 1, Hoboken. New Jersey, for his helpful technical guidance in Chapter 9. Thanks also to Kari Muldrow, a.k.a. Mom, Rob Muldrow, and Sheila Williams for their cooking and safety tips.

  Special thanks to Debra Dorfman and Doug Whiteman.

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Text copyright © 2002 by Diane Muldrow. Interior illustrations copyright © 2002 by Barbara Pollak. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. S.A.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the original edition

  eISBN : 978-1-101-15373-4

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2002102930

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  chapter 1

  Molly Moore fltoore was slarving. And bored. W¡th a yawn, she opened the large chrome refrigerator door, hunched over, and peered inside. Only her long, skinny legs and sky-blue board shorts could be seen.

  “What’s in there?” asked her twin, Amanda, who sat at the kitchen table, flipping endlessly through a teen music magazine.

  Amanda was answered by the clinking sounds of Molly rummaging from shelf to shelf, moving a jar of mayonnaise, pushing back the butter dish, sliding forward a sticky jar with three lonely dill pickles floating in their juice.

  ...Um, Molly? Are you in there?

  “You don’t want to know what’s in here,” Molly finally reported in a muffled voice. “A piece of cold pizza...some old pancake batter...Chinese takeout from last week—”

  “No, that was from two weeks ago,” interrupted Amanda. She tossed the crumpled magazine aside. “Remember? We had it after our piano lessons?”

  Molly finally backed out from the fridge and turned around, carrying the white carton of mystery food. Holding it straight ahead, as far from her freckled nose as possible, she made a funny face as she opened the carton. The smell escaped into the air. It was of something old. Something forgotten. Something...rotten!

  “Eeewww! That was from before we even knew how to play piano!” exclaimed Amanda as the odor hit her nose. She stood up and walked over to her sister. “That doesn’t even look like food anymore. It looks like—”

  “A science experiment!” joked Molly. “Yecch!” Crinkling her nose, she quickly dumped the oozing, dripping fungus-formerly-known-as-food into the garbage disposal and turned it on.

  Just then, the phone rang. Amanda grabbed it before Molly could reach it.

  “Hello?” said Amanda. “Hi, Mom!...We’re fine...No, Matthew’s playing at Ben’s...You’re working late? Dad, too?...hang on.”

  Amanda turned to Molly and said, “Mom wants to know what we want for dinner. She won’t have time to cook tonight. She’s going to pick up something.”

  Molly made a face that told her sister, Oh, no, not take-outagain! “I don’t know,” she replied grumpily, drumming her fingers on the table.

  Amanda flashed Molly her I-know-what-you-mean look, sighed, and turned back into the receiver. “Mom,” she said, “we don’t care. Matthew will want Chinese, so maybe we should just get that. But Molly and I are sick of everything there is!...Yes, even egg rolls. You’ll cook tomorrow, right?...We’ll see you later...It’s okay, really! Bye, Mom.”

  Amanda sighed again and sat down at the table with Molly, who was staring up at the ceiling fan. Molly’s green eyes became almost emerald in the sunlight that shined brightly in the big kitchen. Of all the rooms in their large townhouse, the eleven-year-old twins liked the kitchen best. It was large enough for a crowd of friends to gather in, to make popcorn and work on a school project together. Painted a pale, buttery yellow, the walls had accents of deep blue and green tiles that Mom had picked up in Spain the summer she taught there. Colorful rugs shaped like apples and pears decorated the floor. Cupboards with glass doors showed off the colorful, funky old dishes that Mom and Dad were always picking up at antique stores and tag sales. From large scrolled hooks attached to the ceiling, a pretty iron rack held shiny copper pots and pans. It was a place to feel comfortable, safe, happy.

  “Earth to Molly,” said Amanda. She hated it when Molly got that faraway look, as if she’d forgotten Amanda was there. “Hello? Want me to paint your nails? I have a new glittery color. Sizzling Red Pepper.”

  “Amanda,” said Molly, ignoring Amanda’s question, “If you could have anything you wanted for dinner tonight, what would it be?

  “Hmm,” said Amanda. “Chocolate cake?”

  Molly rolled her eyes.

  “Okay,” said Amanda, laughing. “Let me think-”

  “I know what I’d have,” said Molly. “Remember that chicken I had at Luigi’s restaurant last week? I think it was called chicken pinata or something like that?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Amanda. She picked up the phone and pressed the speed dial for Mom’s office.

  “Hello, Mom? Hi, again,” said Amanda. “What’s the name of that lemony chicken that you and Molly had at the Italian restaurant? On Daddy’s birthday? ... Oh, chicken piccata. Can you spell it? P-i-c-c-a-t-a. Thanks, Mom. Bye!”

  As Amanda hung up the phone, Molly said, “Let’s look it up.”

  “Look what up?”

  “Chicken piccata,” said Molly. “Maybe we can find a recipe online.”

  “Mom isn’t cooking tonight,” said Amanda. “Remember?”

  Molly just looked at Amanda and smiled. She knew her twin would be able to read her mind just about.
.. now.

  “You mean we’d make it?” shrieked Amanda. “For dinner?”

  “You read my mind,” said Molly.

  “It’s the twin thing again,” exclaimed the girls.

  “Anyway, yeah!” said Molly. “Let’s make it for dinner and surprise everyone!” She got up from the table and walked into the den, where the computer was.

  “Um, you’re forgetting something,” said Amanda, following Molly.

  “What?” asked Molly, as she logged on to the Internet.

  “We can’t cook.”

  “Actually, Amanda, we don’t cook.”

  “Right!” said Amanda, laughing. “Because we don’t know how!”

  “We-e-Il, we made hamburgers once, when Mom was sick,” Molly reminded her, not looking up from the computer screen.

  “We burned them,” Amanda replied. “Remember? Dad practically had to call the fire department.”

  “...and homemade chocolate chip cookies, millions of times,” continued Molly. “And gingerbread once, with Grandma. And blueberry muffins. ”

  “Burned, burned, and burned,” said Amanda, counting on her fingers.

  “Puh-lease!” cried Molly, annoyed. Amanda could be so-unadventurous! “Look, Amanda, if we have a recipe, like, right in front of us, how hard can it be?” she asked, as she kept typing. “I mean, we can read, can’t we? Plus we’re having such a stupid, boring summer. All of our friends are on vacation or at camp or in summer school. It rains every time we try to go to the beach. It’s not like we have anything better to do. Wow, look at all these choices for chicken piccata. I’ll just click on...this one. Hey, it looks easy enough to make.”

  Amanda twirled her long brown hair around her finger as she squinted over Molly’s shoulder at the screen. “Mom would be amazed if we cooked dinner,” she admitted. “Maybe we should be helping her out more now. Look at all the stuff you need to make chicken piccata! Lemons, chicken breasts, garlic, parsley, capers...what are capers? Molly, we don’t have this stuff.”

  Molly was scanning the recipe, too. “I know we have flour, butter, and olive oil, and we probably have enough money to buy the rest of the stuff,” she said as she clicked on the print icon. “Okay, I’m printing this out. Let’s go to the store!”

  That was it, Amanda realized. Molly’s mind was made up. And when Molly’s mind was made up, there was no changing it. Nope, better to just go along with Molly’s latest scheme—and hope she’d get tired of it sooner or later.

  Soon the twins were out the door of their tall townhouse and heading down Taft Street to the supermarket (after Amanda had insisted on taking ten minutes to change her outfit), It was a warm July day, and it seemed as if every kid in Park Terrace was outside, whizzing by on a scooter, a bike, or a pair of in-line skates.

  “There’s Matthew”, said Amanda, waving at their younger brother. “Hi, Matthew”.

  “Hey. where are you going?” asked Matthew, who was seven. He was riding bikes with Ben. Ben had been Matthew’s best friend since the two were toddlers. And Ben’s mother, a stay-at-home mom, was Matthew’s official baby-sitter.

  Matthew was wearing his favorite shorts today, the baggy black ones that Mom had to practically steal from him to wash. And he was wearing a white T-shirt with some sort of monster creature on it (or at least the shirt used to be white; now it always looked dirty, even when it was clean). Yeah, Matthew thought he was all that. Actually, he was all freckles and monster creature bandages.

  “You’re helmet’s crooked,” Amanda pointed out to him. As Matthew squirmed and Ben giggled, she adjusted it on his head, saying, “We’re going to Choice Foods. ‘Cause we’re making dinner tonight!”

  “You’re cooking? Aaaaaaggh! Poison!” cried Matthew. He grabbed his throat and made his hazel eyes bug out.

  “Don’t worry, you can eat at my house tonight, Matthew,” Ben said. The boys snickered as they doubled over, pretending that their stomachs hurt.

  “Very funny” said Molly as the twins walked away. “See you later.”

  “Aaaaagh!”shouted Matthew, as he and Ben pretended to die agonizing deaths on the sidewalk.

  “Whatever:” said Amanda, tossing her hair back and straightening her sparkly lime-green tank top. “Hey, how much money do we have, Molly?”

  ...twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, said Molly, who was counting a stack of one-dollar bills. “Twenty-two dollars.”

  “Hold it! You’re dropping some!” cried Amanda. “Give me the money. You’re gonna lose it!”

  “Okay,” Molly said with a sigh as she handed Amanda the wad of money that she’d stuffed into her board shorts. Amanda was more careful, Molly had to admit. Even though they were identical twins with green eyes, pale skin, long brown hair, and plenty of freckles, Molly and Amanda were very different from each other.

  Molly, whose real name was Amelia, (but no one ever called her that) liked her thick hair up in a high ponytail, and had to be coaxed into wearing anything other than jeans or shorts. Amanda loved anything girly: glitter in her hair, velvet tops, colorful jewelry, flavored lip gloss. Amanda was always trying to make Molly try these things, but Molly always seemed to be more inferested in something else she had on her mind at that moment. And right now it was cooking dinner for their whole family!

  It felt funny for the twins to be in the supermarket without their mom or dad.

  “Okay, where should we go first?” asked Amanda, crossing her arms and trying to look cool. “Oh, we have to get a cart.”

  “We don’t need a cart,” said Molly as she reached for a red plastic hand basket. “We’re just getting a few things. Here, take it.”

  “You can carry it,” teased Amanda.

  “Okay, Princess,” said Molly. “Now,” she said, checking the recipe she’d printed out. “Where would the capers be?”

  Amanda giggled. “We don’t even know what capers are,” she said.

  “Ask someone,” said Molly.

  Amanda cringed. “No, you ask!” she said. “Please?”

  “Do I have to do everything?” asked Molly. “Oh, all right!” She walked over to a woman who had her toddler with her, riding in the shopping cart.

  “Excuse me,” said Molly in her “important” voice. “Do you know where the capers are?

  “Capers?” asked the woman. “What are they?”

  Molly felt her face turning red. “Um, you know—capers.

  Just then, the baby began to wail, and the woman turned around and cooed, “Don’t cry, pumpkin! Mommy’s here! Do you want another cracker? Hmmm?”

  Molly walked back to Amanda and said, “Just call me The Invisible Girl! Next time, you ask.”

  Just then, a stock boy passed them.

  Amanda cleared her throat. “Um, excuse me?” she said. “Where are the capers?”

  The stock boy never even looked at the girls. “Capers. Aisle seven,” he replied automatically as he quickly started to fill a shelf with canned tuna. “Watch out! He’s a droid,” whispered Molly wickedly. In aisle seven, the girls passed olive oil, dried beans, pasta...

  “Look! Capers,” said Molly, holding up a small jar of what looked like pickled peas, or little olives. “Now I remember seeing these on my chicken-they taste sort of salty and pickle-y. Okay! Let’s find the parsley, garlic, chicken stock—whatever that is—lemons, and the chicken. The recipe says the chicken has to be sliced thin, but not too thin.”

  “How will we know what’s right?” Amanda wanted to know. Molly just shrugged. Maybe this dinner would turn out to be a big, slimy mess after all. Oh, well, Molly thought, it’ll still be better than being bored.

  When the girls came to the poultry department, they found packages of chicken breasts. Some were very thinly sliced, and some looked fat and juicy. Neither seemed like what the recipe called for.

  Just then, the butcher behind the counter noticed the girls confused expressions. “Hello, there, young ladies!” he called. “Can I help you?”

  “Um, yes,” Amanda said. “
We’re looking for thin-sliced chicken breasts. But not too thin. We, uh, don’t know which ones to get.”

  “What are ya makin’ with em?” asked the butcher. He had rosy cheeks and a full mustache that was almost all white. His blue eyes twinkled. He looked so much like Santa Claus, and he was so jolly that Molly had to pretend she was clearing her throat to keep from laughing.

  “Oh, we’re making chicken piccata,” Amanda said casually, as if she cooked gourmet meals every day.

  “Wow!” said the butcher. “I’m impressed. Don’t look at that packaged stuff. I’ll slice up some fresh chicken breasts for you.”

  “That will be fine,” said Molly. That was something their mom would say. The twins looked at each other and giggled.

  They watched as the butcher quickly sliced the chicken breasts with a big knife. They looked much better than the packaged ones.

  “How many do ya need?” asked the butcher.

  The twins looked at each other blankly. They hadn’t thought of that yet.

  “Well-how many people will you be serving?” asked the butcher.

  “Five,” said Amanda quickly.

  “Okay”, said the butcher, packing up the meat in heavy brown paper and weighing it. “Here are seven. That oughtta do it for ya!”

  “Thank you!” said the girls. He handed Molly the heavy square package.

  Amanda looked at the price. “It’s almost ten dollars!” she said. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “That’s what chicken costs, I guess,” said Molly. “I hope we have enough money for the other stuff.”

  The girls didn’t need to worry. The chicken stock. which seemed to be kind of like chicken soup. lemons, a head of garlic, and a bunch of parsley weren’t expensive. “Okay, let’s get in line and pay for this,” said Molly.