New-York tribune., 1891-05-24
THE KITCHEN FIRE-FIEND.

"Sir" said the Reverend Sydney Smith, when the
rash sceptic had committed himself to an open adj
miration of the soup-"Sir, do you believe in a
cOok?" But If that sceptic had only known his busi
ness, surely the Reverend Sydney's barbed point
must have been bent back on itself cast into the
limbo Of lost ests and parried repartees; for how
| then, could he have missed playing Coleridge's
trump? do you believe in ghosts?" he was
asked. Certainly not; I've seen too many Of
| em.'
Haven't we all seen too many cooks to believe
| in one even one, on the casual testimony Of a
chance soup? Train them in the way they should
| go, and go they will when their time comes, like
| a partridge, with just a. whir and never leave
| or reason. Then clubs for the father of the
| family, and for the mother Chicago corned-beef
| seasoned with tears, until the sad and bad and
mad day when yet another fresh yearling from the
bogs of Killarney or the back steppes Of Sweden,
for instance, is lassoed from the fiery untamed
herd and corralled in the family kitchen. Then
choking back the "hysteric globule,' the chronic
sob of the much-worn housekeeper, mamma calls
for her apron and her cookbook, takes round
turn in her patience, and salies into the kitchen
to do battle as Of old with the fre-fend This is
why every well-regulated American housekeeper,
be she maid, wife widow, dearly loves her
faithful cookbook. This is why If, in our time
and land, with solemn rite Of bell, book and
candle, evil spirits were still to be exercised the
bell might be button, the candle might be
thing Of triple brass and broken chimney, but the
book would oftenest be cookbook.
But there are cook-books and cook-bools and
Of the making Of them there is no end, any more
than Of the lofter or lower forms of literature. Do
we not all know, we housekeepers and sufferers
from housekeeping. the undetermined volume that
would have us luckless hvers upon moderate in
comes emulate the ignorance Of our neighbor with
the immoderate income and flavor the sauce for
our 12.cent pudding with one ~ bottle of best
old Madeira" that shall cost us, say, SO? Or the
fine old Southern plantation recipe for family
pone" that opens grandy by asking us to take
barrel of best cornmeal, firlin of sweet butter,
100 gallons Of sour milk, and SO on? Or that
French charlatan with the rank of chef and the
salary land commissions of life-insurance man.
ager, that babbles of green aspics of meat? When
what's an aspic nobody knows any more than
Elzabeths courtiers knew what haldom was
when that forceful Queen swore by it-and at
them.
Have you tried it yourself? is it good Then
how do you do it.? These are the questions when
housewife meets housewife, both eager to live and
without dining-though he may without dining
at home. AT all events, that if her man can, he
prefers not to. Now these are just the questions
that are answered, snugly, safely, clearly, grace
fully, tastefully answered in the admirable series
of articles on The Wife's Art, by Mrs. Bayard
Taylor the publication of which was begun in
The Tribune of March 30, and continued from Sun
day to Sunday since. This lady-the honored
wearer of an honorable name, the very sound of
which must ever be dear to every reader Of The
Tribune of the old days-knows exactly what she
is writing about and exactly what we are all
wanting. Theory is at the Prov and practice at
the helm No one Of common intelligence can
read her letters on soups and sauces without learn
ing something, and he, she or even 1t, that can
once make soup or sauce will In the end make
a cook These are great letters No reader of
The Tribune ought to miss single one. II they |
do they will deserve all they get. May they dine
badly and the wrath of the cook and laundress" |
dance sarabands at a. m. above the deserted |
spots where rest their Ilnourished bones.