“Mother! mother! he says there’s no work to do.”
“Well, we must always allow for ignorance in visitors,” and touching a spring in the wall the top of the table suddenly glided away with all its contents.
“Now,” she remarked, turning to me, “would you like to go and see our kitchens, or would you rather stay and amuse yourself alone till the work is done?”
“I will come,” I assented.
So together we went.
The work here—the manual work—was very quickly and simply done. But cookery in their hands became a fine art. The room in which this branch of the daily industry was carried on was built of a kind of transparent alabaster. The stoves were constructed of a substance like silver; and the bowls, rolling-pins, spoons and knives were in themselves works of art. The walls were lined with cupboards or safes, and it was from these that our mother took all the ingredients that she needed.
I watched the process of preparation with interest. She evidently understood the mysteries of celestial cookery to perfection, for in an incredibly short time she had prepared an excellent lunch. She also had a very wonderful creative power, as I noticed that all the dishes were made out of pure essences or elements crushed to fine powder like crystal salt.
One dish I watched with special interest. She had taken a fine white powder and put it in a silver bowl. This she mixed with some other ingredients in less quantities. Then over the whole there was sprinkled a pure liquid which turned the whole mass to the palest shade of pink. Then, with a few dexterous turns of a special knife, the mixture began to fall in light flakes. To this some drops of oil that fell like crystal were added. It was left to stand in a refrigerator, whilst she prepared, on a polished framework, a shape of silver scales, tinted in parts with bluish grey. This done she returned to the hardened mass and moulded it with marvellous exactness to the form which she required. Over this, as a dainty covering, she folded the shining scales, and with the insertion of two softened jewels there appeared a fish so fine and real that not the most expert could ever have told it had not been caught in pure river water. She then took it to a stove and placed it where it was held in position by silver spikes. On touching a spring the stove was filled with light heat. “We never use fire,” she said, smiling. “I leave this here now, and it remains till wanted. The light gradually works its way through the whole, and then it has become what you call cooked to a nicety. Next, by a very exact mathematical process, this screw turns again, and the unnecessary light is cut off. But the light which has entered, and the heat, still remains within the body. Thus when required it is in perfect readiness, so that everything being properly cooked—that is, full of light—we never have heavy food, and so are spared the pangs of indigestion.”
“You have a wonderful cookery-book,” said I.
She laughed.