CARMEN CULINARIUM.
If you're anxious to eat without any repining,
Read THEODORE CHILD upon "Delicate Dining."
This sage gastronomic full soothly doth say,
That no mortal can dine more than once in the day;
Then he quotes LOUIS QUINZE, that the art of the cook
Must be learnt most from practice, and not from a book;
While you also will find in the readable proem,
Doctor KING said a dinner resembled a poem.
We shall next see a cook can have only the dimmest
Of notions of art, if he isn't a chemist.
So we learn here the names and the separate uses
Of muscular fibre, albumen and juices.
We are shown the right methods of roasting and boiling,
Of frying and stewing, decocting and broiling;
While our author in words there can be no mistaking,
Is dead against "roasting" in ovens—or baking.
Our asparagus then we are heedfully told,
Ιοστεφανος should be like Athens of old:
With a violet head and a stalk very white
While this CHILD thinks that tepid it yields most delight.
On the artichoke too with affection he lingers,
And also advises you eat with your fingers,
Petits pois à la Française are here, the receipt
That he gives is a good one but haply too sweet.
Our author is great upon salads and sauces,
To cool our hot palates, or tittivate fauces;
Here is all you need learn about GOUFFÉ'S Béarnaise,
And a charming receipt for the Sauce Hollandaise.
In England we know that in sauces we're weak,
And we've never attained to the cuisine classique;
But French Seigneurs of old gave full rein to their wishes,
And live on immortal in delicate dishes.
We are told how to give and receive invitations,
And eke how a table may need decorations.
We agree with the author who says when you dine,
It is very much better to stick to one wine,
Be it ruddy Bordeaux or the driest Champagne,
Let the latter be cool but your ice is no gain.
While on coffee and tea he is sound as a bell,
With all dexterous dodges for making them well.
No man ever escaped—to a cook who did wrong,
For his art ranks so high, said MENANDER's old song.
And the ancients we know loved both oysters and pullets,
When the οινος κεκραμενος slipped down their gullets.
While here is a man to have joined them when roses,
In classical fashion, were cocked o'er their noses.
So we'll take leave of CHILD and his capital book,
With a "Bon appetit" to the gourmet and cook.
A CHRISTMAS CAROL.—(By a Disappointed Church-Decorator.)
When rustic woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that Curates flirt;
It pains, ah! sharper than the holly
Whose spikes her pretty fingers hurt.
Pleasant is pulpit-decoration,
And altar-ornamenting's sweet,
When girls get lost in contemplation
Of parson-whiskers, trim and neat.
Most pleasant too the cheery chatter
Of woodland parties, in the snow,
When gathering—well, well, no matter!
No more I'll hunt for mistletoe.
No more I'll stand and hold the ladder
For reverend gentlemen to mount.
Ah me! Few memories make me madder,
Though merrier ones I may not count.
Goose! How about those steps I'd linger!
Muff! How I bound my handkerchief
Last Christmas Eve, about his finger,
Pierced by that cruel holly-leaf!
And now he's going to marry MINNIE,
The wealthy farmer's freckled frump,
A little narrow-chested ninny!
Into Pound's pond I'll go and jump!
Yet no, Miss MIGGS and he might chuckle,
I know a trick worth two of that;
I'll up and take that fool, BOB BUCKLE,
I hate him, but his farm is fat.
When rustic woman stoops to folly,
And finds e'en Curates can betray,
What act can aggravate the "dolly"
Whose wealth has won his heart away?
The only art her grief to cover,
Enable her to lift her head,
And show her false white-chokered lover
She won't sing "Willow," is—to wed!