Scribbled Eggs and Flitters.
This poor fellow was the most dependent patient I ever had, and though entirely uneducated, won his way to my sympathies by his entire helplessness and belief in the efficacy of my care and advice. No surgeon in the hospital could persuade him to swallow anything in the shape of food unless I sanctioned the order, and a few kindly words, or an encouraging nod would satisfy and please him. His ideas of luxuries were curious, and his answer to my daily inquiries of what he could fancy for food, was invariably the same—he would like some “scribbled eggs and flitters.” This order was complied with three times daily, until the doctor prescribed stronger food and though many dainties were substituted, he still called them by the same name, leading me to suppose that “scribbled eggs and flitters” was his generic term for food.
Un-chew-able Food.
I made him some jelly—Confederate jelly—with the substitution of whiskey for Madeira wine, and citric acid for lemons, but he said “he did not like it, there was no chewing on it,” and “it all went, he did not know where!” so I gave up trying to tempt his palate.
Culinary Mortifications.
When whole wards would be emptied of their occupants, in compliance with changes made to suit certain views of the surgical department, and strangers put in, I would always feel a great repugnance to visiting them. But when the change became gradual, by the convalescents, in twos or threes or half-dozens, being exchanged for invalids, there would always be enough men left to whom I was known, to make me feel at home, and to inform the newcomers why I came among them, and what my duties were. I now found my hospital filled with strangers. They were not so considerate as my old friends had been, and looked rather with suspicion upon my daily visits. One man amused me particularly by keeping a portion of his food every day for my special and agreeable inspection, as he thought, and my particular annoyance, as I felt. A specimen of everything he thought unpalatable was deposited under his pillow, to await my arrival, and the greeting invariably given me was:
“Do you call that good bread?”
“Well no, not very good: but the flour is very dark and musty.”
Another day he would draw out a handfull of dry rice.