In a square, flat pan a half-inch layer of aspic is laid. On this slices of goose liver are superimposed (after having been trimmed to the shape of the suprêmes); the suprêmes are now put on top of the fat liver, and then covered with half-melted chicken jelly.
When thoroughly cooled and ready to serve, a square piece is cut out of the now solid jelly around the suprêmes. The suprême is thus served incrusted in a square block of thick jelly; the dish is decorated with greens.
(Continued from [page 257])
It is to be supposed that when a man gives up the comforts of town apartments and hies him to the country, it is the garden, the outdoors, which lures him.
Why is it, then, that he seems to take particular pains to arrange his garden so that it is about as much his own as Central Park is?
It might give the average man a great deal of pleasure to be able to say to all the passersby on the Mall, "This little bit of the Park belongs to me! I cut that grass, I weed those flower beds in the evening when I come home from the office; and every Saturday afternoon I take the hose and thoroughly soak that bit of lawn there, you may see me at it any week in the summer."
But then, we are not dealing with the fictitious average man, and we firmly believe that many "commuters" wonder deep down in their hearts why it is they get from their gardens so little of the pleasure they anticipated when they came to live out of the city.