Out of the Ashes by Valerie Sherrard Page A

you’d have to choose very carefully.”
    â€œWe have a book that contains the complete works of Shakespeare,” my mom remarked. “Would it be cheating to take that?”
    â€œNot at all, but this is Shelby’s list.”
    â€œI hate Shakespeare,” I moaned, “it’s so hard to know what he’s saying most of the time.”
    â€œI felt that way right through university,” Mr. Taylor smiled. “It’s a lot of work to read the Bard. You have to be willing to invest yourself in his writing.”
    I’d never thought of investing myself when I was reading anything. It was interesting to think of it in that way. It implied that there was a payoff for the effort.
    â€œI really don’t know what three I’d take,” I said finally. I felt a little pressured, as though I was taking a test and hadn’t been able to study for it.
    â€œExcellent!” He lifted his empty fork up in the air as though he was holding up a scepter.
    His proclamation startled me.
    â€œThat proves that you would choose well. You aren’t willing to just name any three books you like. You’d want time to think it through, to make your selections with care.”
    I felt suddenly proud, as though I’d made perfect choices instead of saying I didn’t know. And I felt as though my opinion was valued and interesting.
    â€œWell, my first choice wouldn’t take much thought,” my dad spoke up. “I’d darned sure need a cookbook of some sort.” He patted his stomach in satisfaction at the huge meal we’d all just shared. “Otherwise I’d be living on toast.”
    The subject of spending five years learning to survive and do everything for yourself spread out in front of us and kept us occupied through dessert. It was fun thinking of how you’d have to take provisions like flour and sugar and yeast to make bread and how you’d have to learn to scavenge off the land for some of your supplies.
    â€œI couldn’t trap poor innocent animals!” I said when the talk turned to procuring meat.
    â€œWhat would you do for protein then?” Greg asked.
    â€œI’d take peanut butter, and chickens for eggs.”
    â€œBut your chickens have died and the peanut butter turned rancid.”
    â€œI’m not killing and skinning animals,” I insisted, making a face at the thought. “There must be other things a person can get protein from.”
    â€œPerhaps you’d cook dried beans and our national food — oatmeal,” Mr. Taylor offered helpfully.
    I hadn’t known that oatmeal contained protein or that it was Canada’s national food. That seemed kind of funny until Mr. Taylor explained what a great food it actually is.
    It was amazing how I learned so many things over dinner that day just by talking about stuff that was fun and interesting. I couldn’t help but think that Mr. Taylor must have been a great teacher at college, the way he could get a person drawn into a topic and considering all different things about it.
    All in all, it was a great meal. Well, except for one thing. When we were nearly finished eating, Mom went to get more coffee, and Dad followed her into the doorway where a sprig of mistletoe was hanging. To my horror, he kissed her right in front of everyone. Talk about gross! I made no effort to hide my disgust at this outrageous spectacle, but no one else seemed to mind it.
    When we had stuffed mincemeat pie into our already full stomachs, our guests insisted on doing the dishes. Mom tried to object, but it was obvious she wasn’t going to win, especially when Mr. Taylor said he’d arm wrestle her to see if he’d get his way.
    Mom looked so surprised at the suggestion that we all laughed, and then she declined the arm wrestle and sent me off to the kitchen with them to show them where everything went.
    I felt strangely proud of Mr. Taylor for doing this. It was such a