“I know the soup you mean. I cut the receipt from the paper in the year ‘47, at the time of the famine in Ireland, when you were sent there by Government.”
“Exactly.”
“We tried it ourselves; and my wife’s mother has ever since given it throughout the winter to about twelve or fifteen poor people. The old lady was at first obliged to make it herself, her cook saying that no soup could be made with such a small quantity of meat. She would not even attempt to make it.”
“I believe you; but those people are not aware that in Scotland, where the strongest people in the British dominions are to be found, and especially in the Highlands, they live principally upon oatmeal porridge and vegetables, partaking of a very small portion of animal food;—and did you ever see a finer carnation cheek, or purer blood, than that which flows through the frame of a Scotch lassie, or in the veins of the descendants of the Bruce?”
“No, never; not even on the Continent. But, to return to the receipts: I would advise you to publish them. They would be eagerly purchased, and would render greater service. You must be aware that a slip from a newspaper is often lost.”
“Very true; and I intend to give a series of new receipts on food for the poor, still more simplified.”[2]
“With reference to our conversation about old Lawrence: no doubt he is a good fellow, and a genuine rough diamond into the bargain.”
“Yes,” said I, “and you may add, of the finest water. By the bye, didn’t he go to bed rather top-heavy?”
“Ah, that he did, and fancied himself at home blowing up his old woman, as he calls her, for having let the cat into the dairy, and being unable to find his gun to shoot her. What most astonished the old boy, he told me on the coach next morning on our way to London, was having no headache and feeling as hungry as a hunter—as I did myself. He made sure, after such a mixture of dishes, wines, liquors, and spirits of all kinds, that he should be ill and unable to eat anything for a couple of days. Quite the contrary, however: when at Staines, we made a hearty breakfast at the hotel; and for my part, I never felt better in my life.”
“And do you know,” I replied, “I should have been surprised if my dinner had produced the contrary effect; rest assured, that a dinner well conceived and properly executed, coupled with well-selected beverages, is more than half digested. As Hippocrates says, very justly, ‘What pleases the palate nourishes;’ and we may add, greatly helps to accelerate the digestion when properly cooked. The palate alone can relish the charm of degustation, and only feels satiated when the stomach, being the working organ, refuses to deal with improper food, never failing to acquaint you physically of its ill treatment, both as regards ill-cooked food or bad beverages. Now, to illustrate this argument more forcibly, I would wager that I could give a first-class indigestion to the greatest gourmet, even while using the most recherché provisions, without his being able to detect any fault in the preparation of the dishes of which he had partaken; and this simply by improperly classifying the condiments used in the preparation; thus deceiving the cleverest doctors and the finest palate by a mere counterbalance of unctuous seasoning, which no doubt caused the celebrated Leibnitz to say, in his treatise upon the chemistry of food, now translated into English, and to which I have already referred in my Shilling Cookery Book, ‘That among all the arts known to man, there is none which enjoys a juster appreciation, and the products of which are more universally admired, than that which is concerned in the preparation of our food. Led by an instinct which has almost reached the dignity of conscious knowledge, as the unerring guide, and by the sense of taste, which protects the health, the experienced cook, with respect to the choice, admixture, and preparation of food, has made acquisitions surpassing all that chemical and physiological science have done in regard to the doctrine or theory of nutrition.’”