Who is Cindy Lou Who?

 “Wakey, Cindy Lou, wakey, wakey!”

Cindy Lou woke up with a start, her eyes shot up to the ceiling and her limbs splayed apart. She had just been in the most wonderous of dreams. It had been cat heaven again, and the warm purr of her furry friends had not yet ceased to resound in her ears.

A visitor to her room would be mesmerized at her immense love for everything feline. The walls,  as pink as flamingo feathers, were bedecked with her own cat sketches end to end. On one wall, fluffy blue and purple Persians danced around the canvas in circles—they were singing gleeful songs in an emerald forest of conifers. On another wall, there were skinny, short-furred, briskly jumping red Ocicats reaching out to touch the moon. She had hung up a shiny poster on the door, featuring elegant-looking British Shorthairs at a tea party in a gazebo, with rainbow cupcakes—their hats were curiously akilter. Instead of a cuckoo clock, she had a cuckoo-tabby clock that wailed its loud meows whenever it was time for her to wake up.  A parade of stuffed Siamese greeted her in bed every morning. She had always arranged them by color and size, with the smallest ones closest to her. When she was startled awake, they were flung corner to corner.

“Coming mom!” she yelled back, and shot out of bed, sending more kitties flying. She hurriedly picked up the now-strewn Siamese, put them back where they each belonged, rearranged her pillows. As she walked to the mirror to fix her short, hay-blonde hair that reached slightly below her chin, she wished that it was at least long enough to brush her shoulders. As she hastily patted down her bangs, she thought of those teenage girls in her neighborhood who sported bubblegum-pink hair. She wondered for a moment if she should color her hair red and green for Christmas. A silly self-image popped into her mind and she giggled. Besides, her mother would not approve, and Cindy Lou would never disobey her. The smile turned her into a cherub. The dimples on either cheek went in deep. The crystalline blues gleamed with excitement. The button nose and the elfin ears, traits shared by all Whos, twitched with fervor.

Cindy Lou’s heart raced with nervous anticipation. She had pestered her mother every year to let her help prepare the traditional Roast Beast. Her mother had finally relented, and today was the Big Day! She was no longer the baby of the family; she wanted the Grinch to know. The first encounter with him four years ago still echoed as a clear memory. On Christmas Eve he had “stolen” Christmas from Whoville—taking  all the tinsel-covered trees; all the perfectly-wrapped presents; all the festive food. Later, when the Green One’s heart had grown by two sizes, her family invited him over for their grand Christmas banquet. At Cindy Lou’s insistence, this invitation had become an annual household tradition. He was always seated at the head of the table. His was the honor to carve the Roast Beast.

She set one foot out the door when her mother called again, “Oh, Cindy Lou, and don’t forget to bring the cookbook back with you.”

Cindy Lou zoomed into the room opposite to her in the hallway. It was occupied by older sister Betty Lou, who was busy crocheting her newest scarf. She was exactly who Cindy Lou aspired to be. Betty Lou was smart and funny and athletic and musically talented. Most importantly, she was two feet taller than Cindy Lou. The cookbook had somehow decided to perch itself on the topmost shelf, and she needed her sister to lend her altitude on this occasion.

“Betty Lou, can you please hand me the cookbook from up there?” Cindy Lou pointed.

“Today is the big day, huh?” Betty Lou strode over and retrieved a fat, well-worn book.

“Yeah”, Cindy Lou said with furrowed eyes, “but I’m quite worried. What if I leave the roast in the oven too long? What if I add too much oregano? Should I, um, could you, --”

Betty Lou smiled, “Would you relax! You are patient, attentive and careful. Don’t worry – I’m sure that the Roast Beast that you help make will be mouthwatering. If anything, your touch will make it the best roast ever. Mom’s waiting; just go down there and get cooking!”

Cindy Lou’s heart quickly warmed up. “Thank you, sissy! I-”

“Cindy Lou! It’s time to prepare the Roast Beast!” her mom’s voice flooded her ears. She was inundated with only one thought. She raced out of the room and sprinted down the stairs and loped through the living room and dashed into the kitchen, carrying the cookbook and her elation. Just then, her mom strode in, her wide, luminous smile bearing the enthusiastic expression of “are you ready for this?” Mrs. Who was a tall, slender woman who had shoulder-length, sandy-colored hair that was always neatly combed. Her ice-blue eyes, though droopy and weary from both the toils of home and work, glinted with joy at the sight of her daughter.

Cindy Lou could already smell the artistic masterpiece the feast that would soon be: the hefty chocolate who-pudding with whipped cream dripping over its sides, the who-yams sprinkled with spices and grated who-cheese, who-berry custard topped with a tinge of yogurt, who-lime pie topped with roasted who-apples, and of course, the grand Roast Beast watching over them all.

“I am ready, mom,” Cindy Lou squealed eagerly. “Let’s get cooking!”