The bachelor and the chafing dish

I have begun this chapter in a roundabout way to illustrate, as I afterward did to George, that the simplest way is the best way. Every cook-book I have consulted, as to boiling an egg, for instance, has some new discovery of its own. One evening George popped in on me with great glee. He had just purchased a beautiful new book by Mrs. Ronald, and, directly he was seated, read from it as follows : “ Place the eggs in cold water on the fire and remove as soon as the water boils ! ” Then we consulted other writers on the subject. Said Mrs. Rorer : “ Put them in boiling water ; if you like the white set, about two minutes’ boil- Boiling Things. ing is enough. A new-laid egg will take three minutes.” “ Isn’t that something of an insinuation that the eggs in the first instance are bad eggs ? ” asked George. It seemed like it. Then we referred to Thomas Murrey. This is what he said : “ The chafing-dish is just the thing for boiling eggs at table in hot weather.” “ Well, that is a great recipe for boiling eggs,” said George. “ He wants you to guess at it, and then only in hot weather. Let us guess again.” We now got out Warne’s ponderous English book, “ Model Cookery,” and found on page 82 this thrilling advice : “ Fill a pint saucepan with water” (this means water — not milk, of course!), “set it over the fire and let it boil” (how very explicit!) ; “ then, as it boils, put in with a spoon ” (not a shovel, mind you !) “ two or three fresh eggs. Do not use a fresh egg until it has been laid ten hours.” “ In other words,” I said, “ every hen must lay a guarantee of the time with every egg.” “ Just so,” said George. The larder is stocked with things you like to-day : There are kisses in cocoanut, and buscuits Sweet in their fresh baking, while in bottles lay Tasty anchovies, ready for olives. There’s truffles, cheese ruffles, and chicken pate Crammed into boxes eager to be eaten. There’s chow-chow ; and jam is in tempting array — Peaches in brandy to tickle your palate ! There’s the daintiest tea from China’s kitchen ; There’s coffee from Mocha and Java’s garden ; There’s the smell of a leaf as in the lichen — There’s a great fragrance of stuff in that larder ! The Barsac is prime and ready for drinking, While I am still waiting and waiting for thee ; I love with the love that forever’s a-thinking. Hurry, dear girl, come and take tea — with me ! P. S. — Come on over ! Mab never would consider my cooking seriously. I could occasionally tempt her with a devilled mushroom, and once in a while, when she insisted upon being ravenously hungry, she would nibble as a Jack. A Lunch with Her. little mouse would on a Welsh rabbit — that is if little mouse tried to eat a hot one. One day she had it all arranged to have her grandmother, or somebody or other, accompany her as a chaperone to my “studio,” as she called it, for a little lunch, and had even gone so far, in hopes to please me with her appetite, that she actually went without breakfast that morning. When the hour came Mab appeared with an armful of bundles, each covered with red stars, and I knew she had been shopping. She came through the doorway with a tremendous sweep of skirt, and in an atmosphere of violets. Suddenly she stopped and looked at me aghast : “ Where’s grandmother ? ”