Morning journal and courier., 1882-01-10
CudIfp on Cooking.

[Arlo Bates in the Boston CourierJ 1 My late friend Cudlip was at once the most logical of beings and the one who most exact
 ly lived up to his creed, of all it has been my | fortune to know. "It is arrant folly" he
 was accustomed to say, 'fall this quibbling 1 and quiddling over the final cause of our race I and the true objec. of life. Nature has indi- cated this so plainly that he is the blindest | of fools who cannot understand. There is l but one thing to which nature holds the human race inhexibly, and that is eating. She forgiyes neglect of everything but of food, and since she forces man to eat that he
 may live, she plainly intends that he shall live that he may eat'' And live to eat Cud- lip did, until an untimely attack of the gout carried him of in the full enjoyment of his
 reason, and, as he feebly told me with tears l of gratitude in his eyes the last time SAW him alive, in full possession of his appetite, ] until the very last.
 It was at one time CudEp's purpose to 1 write book upon dining which should cause his name to be remembered with reverence to the latest generation of gastronomers but the consideration that the time required for the composition of the work must be taken from the noble occupation of investigating the inefable science of cookery caused my friend to abandon this design. Certain notes however, made while the project was still fresh in Cudlin's mind have fallen into my hands, and do not venture to add anything whatever of the nature of comment or gloss, feeling that these fragments speak more elo- quently for themselves than could hope to do for them.
 CuDLIP's NOTES.
 He who can endure tasteless soup is capable of constructing universe without light. -. A vegetable soup without turnip has no raison d'etre; without carrot, no sayor with out green peas, no delicacy; and without caulifower utterly, fails of the heights possible to its being. It should be clear as topaz or like century-old Amontillado of salt it must have barely enough of pepper, httle-a mere soupcon-too much.
 The puree is voluptuous to it belong yors husky, penetrating, languid the con- somme is nervous it must have caloric-of spice and of fire-end havors with verve and chic.
 Only palste informed by an ssthetie soul can appreciate mushrooms; and to serve truf- hes to any but the most elevated of the inner brotherhood of gastronomers is crime of blasphemy which should be punished by breaking the wheel.
 traveller may eat steak, hunter may satisfy his hunger upon roast sirloin, but only an artist or poet should be allowed to partake of the delights of filet de boeuf aux champignons.
 can pardon the man who deceives me- he may have purest of motives the man who should elope with my wife did I possess one-I could forgive,-his feelings might have overpowered him; but the man who will cold-bloodedly drink claret from colored glass is inexcusable, can have no object but to outrage the highest instincts of the soul and to insult the eternal verities.
 There is one instant in the existence of roast sirloin when it is fit food for men, be- fore which it is suited to carnivorous beasts and after which it should be relegated to the maids and the footmen when the outside is crisp and brown and well done and the inside is juicy and red and rare, the whole being as hot as Puritan's holy rage at Anabaptists, and tender as his conscience. For this in- stant the roast is an epic; before 1t is tradi- ton and after it is prose.
 Salads are a religion Time which de- stroys creeds, rounds and mellovs into ripe completeness the art of compouuding this dish for the gods. The ability of skillfully and artistically concocting a salad argues mental perfection beside which all mere nor al excellence silks into insignifcence. To mix a salad is solemn rite, a ceremony only to be undertaken with deliberation, gravity and reverence. The herbs must be purified till they are like maiden's eye the oil is to be poured like friendship, not lavishly; the salt sprinkled like that small touch of truth which is compatible with happiness and love; the vinegar dashed in like healthy, hearty hatred, but not SO freely as to embitter. He who has once made good salad, neither cut ting nor bruising the herbs, who has been betrayed into no mixture herewith of fish, flesh or fowl, degrading the whole to the vulgar level of a mongrel mayonaise, who has added exactly the proper dash of white wine, and served it cool, piquant green, fragrant, cracking, appealing to all five sen ses at once, has achieved the triumph of be- ing, and has nobly vindicated his claim to ex- istence.
 Bisczat glace is like young love, delicate. coy, ethereal Who has not seen it served upon lace paper like valentine, and remem- bered with mildly thrilling joy the time when he sent rhyming posies to some childish Dor is or Chloe, long since married to some other man? Creams are like vulgar passions ;sher- bets, like marriages des c0nreaances but biscuit -gldee is the first love, the very poetry of ices.
 Cafe noir makes still possible in this mater ialistic world a belief in the supernatural Can too much care, then, be lavished upon the preparation of this antidote against the skeptlcism of the age. this only panacsa for the evils of doubt, dismay, and despair Alternate my friends, ruin my reputation and destroy my credit, but spare, oh, spazs my cafe noir!