I can see her now. She was just too charming for anything.
With the chicken something was wrong. As I said, I don't know what
it was, and I don't care. The skin was all drawn tight over the
bones like the covering on an umbrella frame, and there was no
end of fat in the pan that we didn't know what to do with. But our
supper of bread and cheese that night was a meal fit for a king. My
mother, who was a notable cook, never made one so fine. It is all
stuff about mothers doing those things better. Who cares, anyhow?
Have mothers curls of gold and long eyelashes, and have they arch
ways? And do they pout, and have pet names? Well, then, are not these
of the very essence of cookery, all the dry books to the contrary
notwithstanding? Some day some one will publish a real cook-book for
young housekeepers, but it will be a wise husband with the proper
sense of things, not a motherly person at all, who will write it.
They make things that are good enough to eat, but that is not the
best part of cooking by long odds.
There is one housekeeping feat of which Elisabeth says she is ashamed
yet.
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