Language cannot describe the anxieties, experiences, and exertions which Jo underwent that morning, and the dinner she served up became a standing joke.  Fearing to ask any more advice, she did her best alone, and discovered that something more than energy and good will is necessary to make a cook.  She boiled the asparagus for an hour and was grieved to find the heads cooked off and the stalks harder than ever.  The bread burned black; for the salad dressing so aggravated her that she could not make it fit to eat.  The lobster was a scarlet mystery to her, but she hammered and poked till it was unshelled and its meager proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce leaves.  The potatoes had to be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were not done at the last.  The blanc mange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as ripe as they looked, having been skilfully ‘deaconed’.

“Well, they can eat beef and bread and butter, if they are hungry, only it’s mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for nothing,” thought Jo, as she rang the bell half an hour later than usual, and stood, hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast spread before Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and Miss Crocker, whose tattling tongue would report them far and wide.

Poor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing after another was tasted and left, while Amy giggled, Meg looked distressed, Miss Crocker pursed her lips, and Laurie talked and laughed with all his might to give a cheerful tone to the festive scene.  Jo’s one strong point was the fruit, for she had sugared it well, and had a pitcher of rich cream to eat with it.  Her hot cheeks cooled a trifle, and she drew a long breath as the pretty glass plates went round, and everyone looked graciously at the little rosy islands floating in a sea of cream.  Miss Crocker tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some water hastily.  Jo, who refused, thinking there might not be enough, for they dwindled sadly after the picking over, glanced at Laurie, but he was eating away manfully, though there was a slight pucker about his mouth and he kept his eye fixed on his plate.  Amy, who was fond of delicate fare, took a heaping spoonful, choked, hid her face in her napkin, and left the table precipitately.

“Oh, what is it?” exclaimed Jo, trembling.

“Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour,” replied Meg with a tragic gesture.

Jo uttered a groan and fell back in her chair, remembering that she had given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of the two boxes on the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the milk in the refrigerator.  She turned scarlet and was on the verge of crying, when she met Laurie’s eyes, which would look merry in spite of his heroic efforts.  The comical side of the affair suddenly struck her, and she laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks.  So did everyone else, even ‘Croaker’ as the girls called the old lady, and the unfortunate dinner ended gaily, with bread and butter, olives and fun.