The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1873-03-27
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closet; you pry into the refrigerator; YOU
wonder where those birds are-surely all
were not eaten up! Or is it leg of cold NUT
ton, fragment Of steak, a wreck OF chick
en-, morsel of tongue, cold sausage, sec
ton OF mince pie, or fragment of apple pies
NO, not might. No, none of these. Though
colu meat at eleven at night, in cosy dining
' loom' down thr'e pairs of stairs from any
ooay' Is not to be spoken lightly of
AT MONDAY dinner one Is formal. He has
e a,n munereo proprieties TO consider. He Is too
iuii OF care to eat, it NAV he. or he ia 90
ciaIly busy, and is diverted from the business
~ ~ hand by carving, serving. TESTING and an
tue lorm OF enjoyment which covers the
i.osS 81 @ business OF eating with fine bubbles.
But, now, late at night, alone. med;tst;vs
imaginative, one seizes the carcase Of : ch;cs,,
en- with curious particularity. There Il tha
wishing bone"-bedded in white rns.t
which shows plainly that no young folks wsra
at dinner when the chicken was carved. The
shoulder blades, on being lifted. deyeione
their lines of choice meat; fine veins of Meth
er white nor dark meat, but a juicy mixture
cinericious, moist, rich, which no spoon can
SCOOP or knife carve, honey-like In little ceI,s
and to be had only as bees get honey, by suck
ing; then on the ribs and along the side
bones there are bits of fodder fiji for epicures:
and these and all other delights you enjoy un-
watched, without convention or ceremony.
Indeed, the full delight of an ancestral feel
ing comes over you. You have sympathy
for bears and lions, that in the thickets lie
down to their food, craunching bones and
sucking out marrow without fear OF inter-
ruption.
But, as we were saying, IL was not meat
that we sought tonight. 1t shall be phil
osopher's meal-bread and cheese. Not one
man in a thousand knows the taste of bread.
hundred loaves are spo led to one that Is
good. Bakers bread may be put aside at
once. 1t is ruined by excessive rising. All
sweetness is gone. 1t is tasteless as sponge,
and almost as tough. Salt risings, too much
yeast when good, and poor yeast, sourness,
heaviness-these all are plaques of bread.
But good -four, abundantly kneaded, raised
to a nicely, cooked In Rumfords steamer,
and then just Drowned in the oyen-tbis is
the bread that lies before me. Woe to him
who smears this delicious corn with winter
butter Good butter there is. II ia rarer
among butter than genius is among men. 1t
Is no KIN 70 oil, and grease it abhorreth. It
smells of the clover field. Its aroma is of
flowers and grass. Its favor is of delicacy
and deliciousness that stirs the hardest heart
to instant thanksgiving.
But why should open up delights before
unknowing men who will pervert the mean
ing of my words by referring them to those
stacks AMI gobs of infamous grease which
pollute the markets and defle every one
which touches themp But such butter have
l not. Let no man eat butter In winterI
Wait till birds sing and meadows sprout, and
cows calve, and early flowers peep; but not
in stormy winters! Eat only bread then or
If another thing go with it let it be cheese
not white, hard. tasteless stuff; not rousing
red aud strong as Samson; not cheese full Of
blisters and honeycombed with apercula,
signs of too hard rennet; not clammy new
cheese, sticking to the knife, but cheese come
to ripeness, of color between orange and
straw; oily, not meist, neither strong uor
mild, but both-mildpess waxing pungent as
you chew, and sharpness subsiding to oily
pastiness, without tang or bitterness.
But better eat bread by ITSELF Surprise
yourself by the flavor OF wheat. Eat and
wonder why one needs cake, when bread is
so much better! As you eat, the clock ticks
on. 1t strikes. Dear me! Twelve twelve,
surely! But what about the cat? Did We
not open with the ways OF cats? But it Is
too late. We must take that for another
time. Now Tom must go down cellar. Scatl
IN. Y. Ledger. 1855 On