And now Young Russell plied me with all kinds of questions about American boys—how they looked and what they did—and about American cities and what they looked like. I endeavored to answer as well as I could. When it came to cities, I told him I never had been in but one—the little city I came from.
And so we strolled back to the point of departure, chatting away like old friends meeting after a long separation. It was with deep interest that I watched the preparation of the food that was to constitute our repast. Sarah’s mother was there—not so dark as her daughter, but comely and pleasant.
“Come,” said the young girl, “and see how your dinner is prepared and cooked.”
Just outside the house was a hole in the ground which was used as an oven. Sarah covered the bottom of it with fresh plaintain leaves. From a fire near by heated stones were pitched into the hole and covered with another layer of leaves. Then yams, breadfruit and sweet potatoes, four large fowl wrapped in tappa cloth, and three great cakes, made of yams and plaintains beaten up and similarly covered, were laid in. Over them all were placed more leaves and heated stones, and over the stones another great layer of leaves. Above all, to keep in the heat, was laid a piece of old canvas. Pointing at it, Sarah said with a laugh:
“That came from a ship which stopped here, and it is the only thing you see to remind you of civilization. Now in civilized countries,” she continued, “it takes a long time to cook things. In twenty minutes to half an hour, gentlemen, your dinner will be ready. The steam does it.”
I never before had taken Kreelman for a wit, but this time he was equal to the occasion.
“The steam does it, miss, just as you say. And there’s a place in America where they ain’t civilized because they cook with steam, too.”
I think we were all as surprised as we were interested.
“Where?” was the general question.
“And they use rockweed instead of plaintain leaves.”