THE OBLIQUE METHOD.
"I want to engage the next cook myself," I had said to my wife.
"Why?" she asked.
"Chiefly," I said, "because I am the only person in the house who minds what is placed on the table. If the food is distasteful I complain of it; you defend it; and we lose our tempers. Now it is perfectly clear that you cannot guard against certain culinary monstrosities when you engage a cook. I can. And coming from a man it will impress her more."
"Why can't I do it?"
"Because you haven't," I said. "You have engaged scores of cooks in your time and everyone does a certain thing which infuriates me."
"Have it your own way," she said.
I meant to.
In course of time the prospective cook was ushered into my study. If I liked her she was to stay.
"Good morning," I said. "There's only one thing I want to discuss with you. Apple tart. Can you cook apple tarts really well?"
She said it was her speciality, her forte.
"Yes, but can you do them as I like them, I wonder."
How did I like them?
"Well, my idea of an apple tart is that there should be so much lemon in it that it tastes of lemon rather than apple."
"Mine, too," she said. "I always put a lot of lemon in."
"And," I went on, "wherever the tart doesn't taste of lemon I like it to taste of cloves."
"I was just going to say the same. I always put in plenty of cloves."
"In short, the whole duty of a cook who is given an apple to cook is," I said, "to see that every scrap of the divine—of the flavour of the apple is smothered and killed."
She looked at me a little in perplexity.
"Isn't it?" I asked.
"Yes," she faltered.
"Well," I said, "I've recently been to see my doctor and he says that there are two things I must never touch again, at least in an apple tart: lemon and cloves. Otherwise he can't answer for the consequences. Will you help me to avoid them, at home at any rate? Will you?"
She was a good woman with a kind heart and she promised.
She has kept her promise.
Apple tarts in our house are worth eating.