"Ollie," said friend wife, "do you know how to cook vegetables in an appetizing manner?"
"Of course," answered Ollie, her lips curling disdainfully.
Then I chipped in with, "Very well, Ollie; the members of this household are vegetarians, for the time being. All of us vegetarians, including the dog, so please govern yourself accordingly."
Ollie smiled in a broad Hungarian manner and whispered that vegetarianisms was where she lived.
She confided to us that she could cook vegetables so artistically that the palate would believe them to be filet mignon, with champagne sauce.
Then she shook the rolling pin at a picture of friend wife's grandfather, and started in to fool the Beef Trust and put all the butchers out of business.
Dinner time came and we were all expectancy.
The first course was potato soup. Filling but not fascinating.
The second course was potato chips, which we nibbled slightly while we looked eagerly at the butler's pantry.
The next course was French fried potatoes with some shoestring potatoes on the side, and I began to get nervous.