The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1896-12-24
LOOKS or cooksY d

1t was question Of cooks-that most
vital Of topics on which the whole wide
world spins round. You may say what
you like-there Is nothing that SO inter
ests the living or the liver. Abraham
found it out some odd years ago when
he recognized that the first polite thing
to do for angels when they called upon
him was to cook them whole calf and
griddle cakes galore. And if these angels
could eat whole calf, down one side
and up the other, why are we nineteenth
centenarians called epicures and high
livers and other opprobrious terms it we
indulge in only oalf's head? Yes, Abra-
ham, father Of the faithful at the knife
and fork, was the first chef who ever
made griddle cakes. And you'll find
that out in Genesis xviii, 6.
1t may be humiliating to own up to
it, but the making Of a poem that
rhymes among the stars is dependant
upon the cooking that sings within the
pot.
Well, here we were with a great ques-
ton confronting us, staggering ques-
ton, Looks or cooks?
Christine Cornares had been "a hours
under our roof. 1t was late autumn
evening when she had been ushered into
our presence. She had come to us glow
ingly, extravagantly recommended, and
| we had been promised angels food in
deed under this our new chefs hands.
We felt our mouths water. Christine
Comares We repeated the surname
slowly, frightening out all it's three In
dian syllables. We repeated it slowly as
this tall, bony apparition stalked into
the library and stood.
Christine Comares had stage pres
ence and an Othello eye. We were a
Desdemona behind three sofa pillows.
Then, rallying bravely, by short
glance we compelled the Comarian orb
to stand still as Joshua's sun and con-
front u.s.
She was about feet, should judge,
in her stockings. She wore bonnet, a
regular bonnet Of the vintage of 1879
orthodox strings tied under the chin.
The poke Of it's straw cornice shaded her
face little A dado adorned her black
satin petticoat where the moths had
been chefs ad lib. and eaten up every
crumb Of the black, greasy looking ma
terial. She wore an Elton jacket. But
she afterward corrected us sternly by
calling it her Eating jacket. Her hair
was draped like venetian curtains. A
skittish Maris Antoinette lace scarf tried
to revolutionize her shoulders. Her
hands were incased in mitts-blaok lace
mitts. She folded these long, black. bony
arms, one across the other like an Egyp.
tian mummy case, and spoke, "Madam"
The voice fell awfully upon US. And
the whole living room echoed it
"damP'
We wondered where our breath had
gone and went hunting for it.
"Ieook, lua-dam-ah-Ic cook make
kickshaws. Have nutting to fear, ma
DAMP Did she notice our Desdemona-
oalisthenics again?
Christine Colnares, or Comanohes, or
something or other surely, disappeared
into the kitchen, escorted by reverent
and remote train, maid, button boy and
the porter.
We had rented her.
Shall we, as rational household,
ever forget those ID hours Of bibulous
delights? Never-till we join Abraham
and eat and drink with angels.
We had quaint and mysterious bever-
ages that tagted Of our grandmother.
We had "kickshaws'' from all CONT
nents. AS a baptismal German this
Christine gave us also nudelsuppe that
was as good as Yankee Doodle Of the
same. We had gingerdam, but there we
paused profanely and could not go on
talking about it, for our mouths were
otherwise engaged We had cakes that
looked like an ivory cloud oumulus on
the Alps. We descended to earth and
sea and ate lobster a la Newburg, or
la Comares, that would have made Del
monico blush lobster red for very shame
We had entrees till we thought we
should never have exits. We had des-
serts. All, our desertsi Shall we ever
get them again? Life is but desert
now, unrelieved by the Comarian oasis
It's become byword in the family for
"a angelic hours "Seel Seel'' we would
cry as the flet and the form appeared
and vanished. sc. CP' O. O. foreyerl
Forever? Today we put forth the
tender buds of hope, etc., spoke one
wise William once upon time, perhaps
when he had had cook. Tomorrow?
Let me tell you your tomorrow"
We were sitting sympathetioally at
Beethoven sonata The room was all
poetry and fire. We were In the illu.
mined land Of artist soul. We were
But the library door was flung violently
open, and the trembling maid stood at
the entrance, button boy on tiptoe in the
rear, porter winter than the ash heap.
"We can't stand it!'' they all ex-
claimed together like chorus in a com
10 opera.
"What is the NATTER" we said some
what sternly. turning from Beethoven
to the button boy.
"Christine Comaresl' again all to-
gether, with hands appraised.
"I.et me hear c0herently. - we repeat.